


Artist in Residence

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Artist Mycroft, First Meetings, M/M, PC Lestrade, mystrade, pockets of dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 299,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is a poor artist with secrets hiding in the shadows of his life and a brother who is something of a human hurricane.   PC Greg Lestrade is a young and eager member of law enforcement who never thought he'd find the man of his dreams sitting on a box in front of an easel...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a series of small sections on my tumblr that I'm transferring over here to make updating easier. Just an exploration of what happens to our boys when Mycroft's not rich, Greg doesn't know Sherlock and the road to happiness isn't an easy one to follow...
> 
> Of note are sections containing content darker in tone than I usually write, which might trouble some readers or catch them unawares. If you have content that is particularly disturbing to you, feel free to contact me (info on Profile page) and make inquiries.

Now, that just wasn’t fair. It was bad enough Lestrade had to play the bad copper and move the man along, but did he have to be so gorgeous? Fair skin, lustrous auburn hair, eyes that looked back at him like a magician staring into the secrets of your soul. He may not be dressed like a toff, but he held himself like one. Even when he was leaning over and sliding a brush across his canvas, he had that particular and precise way of carrying himself and making his motions like he was above the rest of them looking down from a very high tower. But at least he smiled. And it was gracious and warm and oh christ he was saying something…

     “…truly it is a pittance for what you receive. Have you the time to sit? The light is simply lovely this time of day.”

   “Uh, no. I mean, I’m sorry, but sitting’s not allowed. Well, not sitting per se, but being is not allowed here. Well, ok, being isn’t the right word because I can’t ask you to move along for living, but you can’t do it here. I mean, you can, but you shouldn’t. See what I mean?”

   “I feel as if I am riding within a verbal cyclone, however, I shall not object if it means you linger awhile for I am very much enjoying both the view and the whirlwind of words.”

And he spoke exactly as you would expect from the gleam in his eye and the straightness of his shoulders. Take away the charity-shop clothes and tousled hair, put him in a suit and he could be one of those rich blokes in government or the financial district.

   “Yeah, I botched that a bit, didn’t I? It’s like this, sir, I’m afraid you have to move along. Can’t have you doing business here, I’m afraid.”

   “I believe that you can, actually.”

Said with complete confidence and a smile that made the young policeman want to remove his hat, give a little bow and scurry away to the servant’s quarters before his majesty’s good mood went sour.

   “No, I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t set up here like that. You’ll have to pack up, I’m afraid.”

   “Oh, and by whose authority do you direct me in this manner?”

   “Uh… you do realize I’m with the police, right?”

   “It is a great benefit to my art to be able to see.”

   “Then…”

   “Let me rephrase, perhaps. By what evidence do you conclude that I am in violation of any civil regulation?”

   “Sir, the property you’re set up on…”

   “Belongs to whom?”

   “That would be… London?”

Lestrade gave his brain a kick and then another one for good measure. He was a proud member of the police force, for god’s sake. No room for question marks at the end of his sentences when it came to the job!

   “That would be correct. According to some maps, at least.”

   “Some?”

Damned question marks! Targeting him like flies circled a honeypot.

   “Yes. Now, do you see the large garden behind me?”

   “The public garden.”

   “The public garden that is privately owned. Fortunately, the owners believe in sharing their lovely property with the good citizens of London.”

   “Are you saying this bit of walkway belongs to the garden?”

   “Some older maps indicate that very thing. To evict me from this location would require determining just who could force such an eviction and obtaining their consent to do so. Those actions would first mandate that the issue of property ownership be established through the appropriate legal channels. Now, the beautiful garden is owned by one of the most wealthy and influential families in this fair land and I would suspect that our governmental machinery, in which said family is very prominently represented, would not care to engage in a legal battle for a few steps worth of firmament. And our garden’s owners also will not choose to expend the energy or the funds to clearly take possession of my small parcel of acreage.”

   “So you’ve got your box and easel on a piece of land that no one wants to plant their flag on because of the fuss it would cause.”

   “Precisely! How very astute of you.”

Astute might be right, because something was tickling his cop’s senses…

   “You’ve got that speech pretty well-rehearsed. Gotten hassled by the lads before haven’t you?”

   “If you are asking if your brethren previously have attempted to relocate my inoffensive business, then I must answer in the affirmative. They rarely do so now, however, having learned that it is not to their benefit to pursue the issue. Regardless, the occasional individual new to the post does still try to do their duty as they understand it. I wholeheartedly applaud their initiative, of course. I cannot abide lazy or incompetent work by those tasked to serve the public good.”

Individuals new to the post… it explained why Lestrade drew such a nice area to patrol today… well, new or not, someone was buying him a pint tonight to pay for making him look the fool in front of this smart and sexy beast. And talented, too…

   “Ah, you noticed my little sketch of you. I hope you do not mind, but I simply could not resist. Please accept it as a gift. A token to mark our new friendship.”

Regulations were very clear. No gifts, no exceptions.

   “Thanks. It’s very good, you’ve… you’re very talented.”

   “How kind of you to say. Perhaps one day you will take the time and allow me to create something more robust. It is not often I am presented with such a pleasant and intriguing subject.”

Flirting had never been a problem for Gregory Lestrade, except, apparently, when it was initiated by a pauperly-posh street artist with a voice like sex on silk sheets.

   “Not a lot of time to sit while on the job, I’m afraid.”

And that was completely devoid of flirtation. Lestrade would have to hand in his credentials as a man about town.

   “More’s the pity. Well, you know now where I spend my days; I would not be distressed to again debate with you the fine points of esoteric legal issues.”

Another opening. Don’t fuck this one up.

   “I, um… I’m not sure if… or when… I might get assigned… you see, they’re sort of trying me out in different spots and…”

Why couldn’t they carry firearms like the American police so he could kill himself right now and save everyone further embarrassment?

   “Of course, I completely understand. Well, it has been a pleasure meeting you, Constable… oh, I am afraid I do not know your name.”

   “Lestrade. Greg, actually.”

   “Gregory… what an appropriate name. Solid, responsible, rich with strength and restrained passions.”

Finally he meets someone who is the whole package he’d been looking for and who was interested in him and Lestrade couldn’t muster up any suave or sophisticated to save his miserable life.

   “That’s… very nice of you to say. And you are? If it’s ok to ask…”

   “Mycroft Holmes, at your service.”

Even his name sounded like kissing someone right below the navel and listening to them purr.

   “That’s a good name for an artist.”

   “Such a perspective is one I had not considered. Thank you for the new idea, Gregory… it is very rare I am presented with one for it takes a highly unique individual to challenge me in such a way.”

Flirting seemed to come as naturally to this Mycroft Holmes as swimming did to a fish. It used to come that easily to him, too, until he met this Mycroft Holmes…

   “You’re ummm… you’re welcome. I’d best be on my way then. Streets to keep safe and all of that.”

And he had to stop by a butcher and have his innards carved out so he could physically be as much of a gutless wonder as he was behaving.

   “Of course, it was rude of me to keep you from going about your rounds. Good day, Gregory. I do hope to see you again at some point.”

Treat the citizens with respect at all times. Use Mr., Ms. or Mrs. when addressing them.

   “And good day to you, Mycroft. I’ll see you around.”

That should inspire the fires of anticipation. Where was his trophy for being the most useless romantic in all of London? Should be a big one, too, because he’d trounced some very heavy competition to win the title. At least he could now slink away in shame and it was only a nod to police-trained situational awareness that he ducked behind the corner of a building to look back at the man, who was calmly returning to work on the canvas he’d been painting and, now, wearing a small, satisfied smile of his lips. Ok… tomorrow, provided he was out this way of course, he’d have a little more swagger in his step. Brain would be clear and happy to help its old the friend, the body, make some headway towards getting that gorgeous creature naked and making all sorts of noises with that ‘I shag even better than I draw’ voice. Tomorrow… ok, good shave, early night so he didn’t look like a hangover…

__________

Why the fuck did he go out last night? Ok, he knew why. He was owed and collected getting his pint from the arseholes who thought they’d pulled a trick on him sending him out Mycroft’s way. Apparently, the man had a bit of a reputation of sending away new PC’s with their bollocks in their hats, so he got a few, or lots, of rounds of congratulatory pints for surviving intact and now… ow. And, of course, the sun had to be shining. This was London! The sun had no business shining and ruining his day…

At least he wasn’t the only one looking grim this morning. Half of the proud members of the law enforcement team were clutching cups of something strong and wearing sunglasses, even inside the building. But, by some stray thread of good fortune, when his assignment came down, it was the one he wanted. One that put him squarely in the area of his artist friend, so it would be in no way stalker-like if he showed up again today for another round of conversation. And this time it would be conversation, not Mycroft being all eloquent and personable and him being a dimwit like those stupid cops they showed on the telly. Too bad he didn’t know more about art so he’d have something to talk about. Or… maybe that was a way in. If he didn’t know much about art, then someone would have to teach him, wouldn’t they?

__________

Not that it looked like he’d be getting his lesson today. Of course, when he’d gotten himself sorted out and even had a way to get a conversation going, the whole of the city had to decide this was their day to start on a life of lawlessness. He’d actually had to chase down three different idiots who thought it was a good idea to add running to their list of petty charges and stand watch while a more senior member of his compatriots dealt with a nasty domestic issue that seemed to draw in every family member and neighbor for a ten-block radius. By the time he could even consider finding his quarry, the sun was getting low in the sky and it wasn’t a surprise that the man’s spot was already vacated for the day.

It was only by chance and the desperate need for more caffeine that he caught sight of the tall artist passing a café a few blocks from the park and, taking it as a sign that he’d paid his price to earn this bit of luck, darted over to attract Mycroft’s attention.

   “Ah, constable, how auspicious an occasion. I do hope I am not violating any ordinances.”

   “What? No! I just saw you and thought I’d say hello. Not often I run into someone I know out here.”

   “Then I am delighted to be the exception. And how goes your day protecting us from the barbarians at the gate?”

   “Good! Yeah… good. Busy, lots of stupid people doing stupid things, but busy’s better than boring.”

Except when it nearly makes you miss your chance with this fine example of a man. Now that he was standing, it was easy to see how tall he really was. And how lean. And that these were the same clothes he was wearing yesterday. And that he looked very tired for someone who’d been sitting all day painting.

   “I heartily agree. I do appreciate a busy day and today was a shining example. So many people enjoying the lovely weather and its ability to brighten their moods.”

   “And let me guess, it makes them ok with stopping for you to draw them.”

   “Very perceptive. A few were even kind enough to express interest in my more contemplative works. Perhaps they shall return one day to purchase one.”

   “That… you know… happen a lot?”

IDIOT! You don’t ask questions like that of a guy who’s wearing yesterday’s clothes and looks like he hasn’t had a good meal in a week. Yeah, have fun watching the light drain out of his eyes.

   “It is not an unheard of event.”

Ok, he needed to do something to keep this meeting from being as awkward as the first one.

   “Well, I can’t say I know much about art, but I do know that the stuff you do is really good. I mean, what I’ve seen of it I like and I bet that’s not even your best work. Wouldn’t have your very best stuff out in the weather like that, would you? Nah, I bet you’ve got even better stuff that you’re holding onto in your flat somewhere.”

Babbling was a super way to avoid awkwardness. Gregory Lestrade was one smooth customer. Moving to Antarctica immediately so only the penguins could be offended by his lack of social skills.

   “I… I am most flattered by your assessment of my work. It is good to hear an encouraging word now and then. And yes, I do keep certain pieces sheltered from possible disturbance by weather or… shall I call them critics?”

The smile was back in Mycroft’s eyes, which delighted Lestrade to no end, but he did not like the last bit of that little speech.

   “Has someone done something? To your paintings, I mean.”

Letting the ‘or to you’ hang unsaid was a hard thing, but Lestrade was not going to open that up while standing on the street.

   “There is the occasional individual who is not fully appreciative of my work and opts for a more… vigorous… method of demonstrating their displeasure with my abilities. Fortunately, they are a rare breed.”

There was a nasty, acidic feeling brewing in Lestrade’s gut that he pushed down hard to keep the anger from showing on his face. How could anyone, anyone, lay one hand on this man’s hard work? Lay a hand on him.

   “You’ll let me know if it happens again, right? There are a few perks that go with being friendly with a cop, you know?”

   “Gregory, how kind of you to defend my honor.”

Ok, that was flirting again and if he let this chance pass he was going to cut his favorite bits right off and toss them in the nearest bin.

   “Ah, you strike me as a man who likes having his honor attacked now and again.”

YES! He could keep his man parts and got a grin from Mycroft as a bonus.

   “How very perceptive. I think you shall work your way into the Detective’s ranks in very short order. But, I do warn you… a vigorous and prolonged attack would be required to strip from me my honor. It is not a task for the unmotivated.”

Lestrade had to wonder if the artist noticed just how motivated he was becoming. Already, one piece of him was starting to raise its hand to volunteer to storm the castle. Man had a voice like laying naked on a thick rug in front of a fire…

   “Can’t become a cop without stamina. Have to be able to commit to something and follow through even if it takes hours… and lots of manpower.”

   “Encouraging. I am heartened that our persons are being guarded by those who have the necessary fortitude and passion for their work. Perhaps we might discuss the situation more fully? Explore what other skills and talents one must possess to be a stalwart soldier of justice. And which of them can be put to more… entertaining uses.”

Raising its hand and starting to wave to be called on. Not really what they meant when they talked about filling out one’s uniform.

   “I always enjoy a good discussion. Nice way to uh…. stimulate the brain.”

Goal! Fully back in the seduction seat. Well, a least the passenger’s seat. There wasn’t much confusion about who was driving and that was perfectly fine with the young PC. Lestrade had no doubt that Mycroft was very, very good behind the wheel.

   “Excellent. I admire a man who actively pursues methods of stimulation. Are you perhaps free this evening? I should hate not to capitalize on our mutual appreciation of energetic engagement.”

Even if he had his own funeral to attend, Lestrade was not going to refuse this offer. How often did a chance like this fall in to his lap. Long, lean, smart, striking… willing.

   “I get off in an hour or so.”

   “So early? I was rather hoping that you would ‘get off’ at a much later hour.”

If Mycroft didn’t pack away that little seductive pout and his soft-breath-against-the-back-of-the-neck voice, the getting off was going to happen in a place and time that might earn Lestrade a reprimand in his file. Unless the people walking by them right now really liked his performance.

   “Later’s good for me, too. Or earlier, if you like multiple topics of conversation.”

If that smile couldn’t be called wicked, then the Witch of the West had no bloody hope.

   “So rare to meet someone of like mind. I shall meet you here at the appointed hour and we may return to my flat for our visit. Oh, and Gregory… if you do not wish to divest yourself of your uniform, I shall not complain.”

And before he could respond, one long finger reached out to slowly trace the curve of Lestrade’s jaw. In the next moment, the artist was gone, walking down the street with the body language of a man who knew he had a very enjoyable night ahead of him. And now a certain PC had to put that thought out of his own mind if he wanted to make it through the rest of his duty shift without being pointed to and laughed at. Luckily, praying that no idiot made him draw overtime was starting to do the trick and shrink his concerns…

__________

Mycroft pulled closed the door to his flat and stared at the tiny, bleak space, the only happy note of which was the complete absence of his brother. A quick tidying of the mess said brother had wrought in his absence and… well, there was nothing more he could easily do but hope that he could provide sufficient distraction that his very captivating friend didn’t pay notice to the sparseness of the space. Such a delightful man… forthright, confident, humorous, deliciously clever and possessing a masculine beauty that was so very rare to find. And interested. In a poor artist who could offer nothing for entertainment but his own skinny and cold-washed body. Though he did seem to value conversation, beyond the innuendo-ridden use of the term. Not that anyone would wish to instigate an intellectual debate in this unheated basement of a flat.

Mycroft counted the money he had collected that day and decided that he could afford a bottle of the very inexpensive wine he purchased to celebrate an actual sale of one of his real paintings and some basic supplies to make their evening a successful one. He had a decent dinner last night and… well, missing a few days of meals was a small price to pay to allow one’s soul the chance to feed… it would be very opportune if he could make a good impression on Gregory. Give the man something he might want to return again and sample. It was not often Mycroft Holmes allowed himself to want anything, but this time… perhaps this time it was not an altogether exercise in wishful thinking… and what a utter joy that would be…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Sherlock, who throws his typical wrench into the gears...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has already left kudos and comments - appreciate every one!

It was a little uppity for the new boy, but Lestrade didn’t feel too uncomfortable asking to leave a half-hour early, given the day he’d had and, besides, he needed the time to try and make himself presentable for his… was it a date? There really wasn’t any confusion about what he was meeting Mycroft for, but it seemed wrong to just think of it as a hook-up. That was for someone he pulled at a pub and never saw again and he very much wanted to see Mycroft again. The man was definitely sex on legs, but there was more to him and that more was interesting. And different. And likeable. And made Lestrade want to do things besides just reduce his new mate to a quivering, moaning mess on a comfy mattress. So… this pair of trousers made his arse look amazing and this shirt was a good color but modest. One coin with a fuck-me-senseless side and a ‘hey, I’d like to take you for a nice stroll side.’ Oh crap, and he’d nearly forgotten to brush his teeth…

__________

And there he was. The man stood out like a burning candle amongst the rest of the people walking around in front of the shops. How could one person be so completely mesmerizing? And why couldn’t all the idiots walking past without a second look see that?

   “Ah, Gregory… how delightful it is to see you again.”

Voice like pouring warm oil over a naked back.

   “You too. Did change my clothes, though. Uniform was a little hot and… let’s just say hot.”

   “It is no matter. You are exquisite in whatever you choose to adorn yourself. Shall we walk? My flat is not far.”

Lestrade tried not to react to the long arm reaching around his back to rest a long-fingered hand on his shoulder. It shouldn’t feel so good coming from someone he’d just met but it did. And Lestrade wasn’t really in the mood to question why.

   “Close to your painting spot. That’s convenient.”

   “It is. With our eternally inclement weather, the ability to dash home and spare my work the ignominy of a shower is most advantageous.”

   “Are all artists as good with words as you or is that just… you?”

   “You flatter me, Gregory and, in honesty, I treasure it. And I have no doubt many of my ilk affect a cultured persona, which may be more or less a reflection of their true natures.”

   “I don’t actually think you answered my real question. At least not in a way you wanted me to really follow.”

That little naughty-boy-caught-stealing-biscuits smile should be illegal. He’d make a report in the morning.

   “I am found out. I must say, your ability to peer past my subterfuge is very refreshing. Invigorating, even. And for that, you deserve something plain and unvarnished. With exceptions, I would equate pattern of speech to rearing and education, of which mine promoted something slightly more formal and verbose than the norm.”

   “So you went to one of those fancy public schools.”

   “For my sins, that was my punishment. It was not an entirely unwelcome thing when my attendance was no longer feasible.”

Somehow, Lestrade knew, that didn’t mean he graduated.

   “Oh. Moved?”

   “In circumstance, yes.”

And time to stop that line of questioning. A picture was forming in the PC’s head, it wasn’t a happy one and unhappy pictures weren’t what he wanted in his heads when he was hoping to get very vigorously laid.

   “Well, I guess your theory’s right. I’ve got working-class written in my blood and in my brain and that’s what I’ll always sound like, I guess, even if I rose up to a Superintendent or Commissioner’s rank.”

   “And that is to your credit. Why should you modify your very agreeable mode of speech when your merit, as judged by your actions, warrants your promotion? And I do predict you will have an illustrious career in your chosen field, Gregory. It is obvious that you are not only skilled, but talented in your work and that should take you to great things.”

It was strange that the words of the numbers of people who’d told him that he was too impulsive, too rough, too common to ever get promoted very far up, started to vanish in Lestrade’s head. Mycroft was smarter than all of them put together and if he thought there was a good career ahead for a cheeky young PC then… there was.

   “Now it’s you that’s the flatterer. But I do want to move up there, where you get the really interesting cases.”

   “And you will do a marvelous job with them, I have no doubt. In fact, my person feels safer already knowing that you will be safeguarding London from the miscreants that seek to wreak havoc and chaos in the streets.”

   “I think I’ll need a bigger baton.”

   “I think your baton is properly sized as it is, if I’m not mistaken.”

And how was he supposed to walk casually when his toes were curling? Slick, satiny sex on long, luscious legs. And something else was probably long and luscious, too.

   “Such wickedness. No wonder you’ve got that gleam in your eye. Fires of hell, that’s what that is.”

   “Oh dear, and I had hoped no one would notice. Again, I bow to your unparalleled observational skills.”

And a grin even wickeder than that look in his eyes. Oh, this was going to be a good night. And it looked like it was about ready to start, since Mycroft had stopped their walk and was now fiddling with the lock on the door to a… Lestrade had been enjoying their conversation so much that he hadn’t noticed they’d made their way to a very respectable area of the city. And were now heading down towards the basement where Mycroft pushed open the door to a small and damp flat.

   “Nice… nice building.”

   “Isn’t it? I was very lucky to find this particular space. The landlord is a vile fellow, unlike his dear wife, however, he charges a low rate for this particular flat owing to its lack of… amenities. And his lack of desire to perform maintenance tasks.”

   “Well, it’s got a bed and a loo and a way to boil up some water for tea. What more does a man need?”

Heat, a telephone, hot water, reliable electricity, rain that stayed outdoors during a storm… but Mycroft decided to keep those little tidbits to himself for now.

   “I cannot imagine. And, behold, there is also wine and a mechanism to release its contents. Would you care to take a seat while I pour us a glass?”

Lestrade tried not to move his eyes while he looked around for a chair but, apparently, the only two were at the small table along one wall, unless he wanted to sit on the bed and he had another plan for that piece of furniture later.

   “And what type of wine shall we be enjoying this fine evening?”

   “Oh, a vintage fit for a housecat. A vibrant red heavy with notes of moldy grapes and cigarette ash.”

   “My favorite! How did you know?”

   “I am very adept and discerning people’s taste.”

And very relieved that his guest was not offended by either the shamefully humble surroundings or the obviously low cost of the wine. At least he was able to offer Gregory a real wine glass. It was a happy accident that he was able to find a few unbroken ones in the case that had been set out with the rubbish near a pub. Mycroft set one down in front of his new friend and felt the last coil of tension unwind in his stomach after Lestrade took a sip and gave him a smile.

   “It’s good! Better than what I usually find myself drinking. Had some at a mate’s wedding that literally made the glands in my neck pucker with every sip I took. That was a sinful waste of good alcohol.”

   “Then I shall make it a point to never purchase for you puckery libations.”

   “You’re my best friend, Mycroft.”

   “Such an honor I shall hold forever dear. Now, do tell me about your day? You indicated it was busy one… I’m sure you have a wealth of stories to share.”

   “As a matter of fact, there was this one chap…”

__________

On the third glass of wine they moved to sit on the small bed, backs against the wall for support, with the conversation still flowing easily and enjoyably and it was only when Lestrade turned his head just so, and caught Mycroft’s eye in just that way that the original purpose of his visit shot back into his spine as an electric spark of lust that made every cell in his body tingle. In the next moment, the wineglasses were on the floor and Mycroft’s lips were on his, as perfect and warm as Lestrade knew they would be. And of course the artist knew how to use his hands, touching him in just the right places on his neck and chest. And then across his belly and around to the small of his back so Mycroft could pull his body closer. How could one man taste so delicious? Rich and spicy, like a magic brew of chocolate and pepper that Lestrade wondered how he’d ever be happy without tasting again. And again.

   “I have asked very politely that you keep your customers out of our home, Mycroft. Can you not at least grant me that little favor?”

Lestrade jumped just as high as the man holding him, but didn’t emit quite the growl the other did seeing the young, dark-haired man standing in the flat.

   “What are you doing here, Sherlock? You were supposed to be busy with your experiments tonight.”

   “They took an unexpected turn and I find that I can do nothing further until the morning. Should I ask who this is or do not even know the man’s name?”

Something in his… Mycroft’s… posture and the younger man’s voice at least soothed Lestrade’s worry that this wasn’t the boyfriend come home early, but he still did not like the tone the bastard was using.

   “Name’s Greg. PC Greg Lestrade if that helps. And you are?”

   “Gregory, do not encourage him.”

   “A policeman? I already knew your tastes were as poor as your pocket, Mycroft, but really, have you sunk so low?”

   “Hey!”

   “Sherlock, go to the library. Find a film to view. Collect samples of… whatever you desire… to analyze, but leave!”

   “No. And it is my night for the bed, so kindly remove yourselves so that I may read.”

   Sherlock… I ask little of you…”

   “And that is burdensome enough.”

   “Mycroft, who is this bastard and do you have a good reason I can’t break his skinny neck?”

   “He is my brother and, unfortunately, that must also serve as your reason to leave his life intact.”

Brother. Good god, having to life with that as your brother…

   “How sweet your client defends your honor. Not that you have much left to defend.”

   “Mycroft what is this loony babbling about?”

And why couldn’t he punch the idiot that had completely stripped away the light from his Mycroft’s eyes?

   “Gregory, I am sorry, but it is probably best that you leave.”

Nope. Not gonna let that little prick win this battle. At least not completely.

   “Then how about a walk? Me and you have a little stroll? That sound good?”

The eyes that turned towards Lestrade said it was a very good idea. And very surprising one.

   “I would welcome that. It is a delightful offer.”

   “And what are you going to charge him for that, Mycroft?”

   “I believe that is our cue to leave, Gregory. Sherlock, we shall have words when I return.”

   “I am paralyzed in fear.”

   “I’ll paralyze you in legs, you twit.”

   “Mycroft, leash your dog.”

That comment set Lestrade moving forward and it was only Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder that stopped him from making good on his threat.

   “He is not worth your efforts, my dear, and he would not internalize the lesson in any case. Let us go, shall we? I am certain you know many wonderful routes to walk and I find myself in the mood to explore.”

   “For as long as you want, Mycroft. Come on…”

__________

Lestrade ignored the rude noise Sherlock made as they left the flat and made sure to stop once they got outside to give his companion a long, slow kiss.

   “I am so sorry, Gregory. Sherlock is not always quite so abrasive, but then… he can also be much worse when the mood takes him.”

   “You don’t need to apologize for him, Mycroft. That’s his job. But…”

He’d tried to push certain of Sherlock’s comments to the back of his mind, but both his curiosity as a policeman and as a potential… someone to Mycroft… made him need to dig into the matter.

   “…about what Sherlock was saying. I think you know what I mean.”

And it was his fault this time that Mycroft’s eyes grew dark and even his body seemed to shrink from knowing what Lestrade was asking.

   “If you wish to be on your way, I will regret it terribly, but I will understand.”

   “I’m not going anywhere except for a walk with you. But, I have to ask. You know I have to ask.”

Mycroft slowly nodded, but he at least reached out to take Lestrade’s hand and gently pull him along as he began to walk away from the flat.

   “It is a long story.”

   “I’ve got time. And good ears.”

   “There is far more of you than your ears that is good, Gregory.”

   “And right now, it’s all yours. So let’s hear what you have to say.”

   “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…”

And, for a moment, the two men could laugh at Mycroft’s words, but, both knew that wouldn’t happen again, for quite some time…


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further we go down into Mycroft's rabbit hole...

Greg guided Mycroft through the streets, keeping hold of his hand the whole time like they were a pair of teenagers, but Mycroft didn’t try to let go either, so the young PC didn’t feel too silly strolling hand-in-hand through London. For a long while, he just watched the artist stare straight ahead or look up at the sky where, surprisingly, you could see a fair number of stars and it actually startled him when Mycroft started to speak.

   “Is this what you saw yourself becoming, Gregory?”

   “You mean joining up with the police?”

   “That… and other things. Are you the man you felt you would be when you looked ahead to the years to come?”

Was he the man he thought he’d be… now, that was a question. On one hand, no. Greg thought he’d be rich and have a huge house, maybe doing something like playing in a band on the side… Ok, maybe thought wasn’t the right word. Maybe wished was better. He wished for those things, but everyone did, right? What he thought he’d be was fine. In a decent job, have some friends, be someone those friends could count on… maybe have someone in his life to share it all with. So, yeah… he was pretty much who and what he’d thought he’d be. No real surprises…

   “I think so. I’ve always been the responsible one, the dependable one… Always liked having a good time, getting in a spot of mischief, but nothing to make any real trouble… and that’s really what I am now. Just an average bloke not afraid of hard work. That’s how I grew up and it’s not changed any, I suppose.

   “Then you are a very fortunate man. It is to my detriment that I cannot say the same.”

   “Mycroft, will you just talk to me? I want you to you, ok? And I’m not going to run away just because you’ve got a few secrets in your cupboard.”

It wasn’t much of a grin on the artist’s face, but it was more than was there before. Greg just wished he knew if it was a happy smile or one you made when you really, really wanted to be happy but it just wasn’t working out.

   “You are a kind man, Gregory Lestrade. Too kind, perhaps, for someone of my caliber.”

   “Will you just stop that and talk to me! No getting all dreary when I don’t even know what you’re being dreary about!”

Now, that, at least, was more like a real smile. If all Greg could do was keep that smile hovering on Mycroft’s face, then he’d proclaim himself the winner. Of exactly what, he didn’t know, but it was winning all the same.

   “It is a fair request and one I will do my best to honor. I am certain… it is not entirely surprising that Sherlock and I did not begin life in these circumstances, correct?”

   “You said as much. Had to leave your school, right? I didn’t think that was because you found something better.”

   “Astute. As you should be for your career. Sherlock and I began with a very affable life, a large home and… a comfortable future ahead of us. Though it was not his fault… my father was not, apparently, the man of finance he hoped to be. Weak decisions were made on even weaker information and…”

   “You lost it all.”

   “Not quite. We may have been able to continue with at least an agreeable existence in a modest home, however, there was a fire before our home was taken from us. The investigation… it was determined that the fire was set deliberately, likely for the profit of the insurance.”

   “You think your Dad…”

   “I, unfortunately, will never know. He and my mother perished in the blaze. It was only by luck that Sherlock and I were occupied with finding for him new shoes that we did not become part of that particular tragedy. With the resulting taxes and other levies…”

   “You had nothing left.”

   “That would not be entirely inaccurate. What little remained helped pay the rent for the small flat we were able to secure, but nothing else. Sherlock was still in school and not of age to do anything to supplement our income and I… I am not a good man, Gregory. I have refused, out of pride, spite… I do not entirely know… but I have refused to set aside the only dream I have ever carried, even when it would be the wisest and noblest choice to do so.”

   “Your art.”

   “It is what fills me; the only avenue by which I have ever found happiness. Father despised my choice to pursue such a frivolous path and Sherlock… Father had no right to scorn me; however, I cannot deny that emotion to my brother. I could have taken the honorable path and secured for myself gainful employment. Given him more of what he deserved, what he expected and had been given from life… but I did not. I could not leave behind the one thing, Gregory… the single thing that was still mine. The only thing at which I could take pleasure. The only thing I ever wanted to do.”

   “So… you’ve had to supplement your income sometimes…”

   “It is not an economically unsound premise. The funds are generous for the time involved and… well, it is not as if that which I sell I am incapable of selling again, correct?”

   “Um… for how long have you been…?”

   “For longer than Sherlock realizes. We lived before in a gentler area, one where men were far more secretive about their, shall we say, desires. Coming to London has been… a change for both Sherlock and myself.”

   “Why come at all? I mean, it doesn’t sound like you had a good life, but it sounds like it was better than… I’m trying to insult you, Mycroft, but you don’t really have it good here, do you?”

   “We are here for Sherlock; to give him the future he deserves and I cannot provide.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “Through some effort on my part and his own natural intellect, which is in no manner reflected by his horrifying personality, I was able to secure for him a scholarship to further his education. When his tempers are in check, he is an exemplary student. Some have called him a genius and I find no reason to argue with their assessment. He can achieve great things… very great things and I do what I must to ensure he achieves that greatness.”

   “Even if it’s hurting you in the process.”

   “I accept that as my penance for failing him so abysmally. I could do better for him, Gregory. I could provide a better home and warmth and food every day… if only I was not so selfish. Self-centered, actually. I will not… cannot… leave behind my art and he suffers for it. It is only right that my suffering is more severe than his.”

   “He’s an adult, Mycroft. He could do something…”

   “He is a child, Gregory. A temperamental, tempestuous child with a mind any scientist would covet. It is my responsibility to see to his needs and I, in that responsibility, have been catastrophically remiss. I have behaved atrociously in regards to his welfare and I… oh, good heavens, I do apologize.”

Greg reached out and wiped Mycroft’s emotion off of his cheek. What truly was catastrophically remiss was that this deeply caring man was torturing himself out of guilt. Greg couldn’t think of anything, not one thing, that he could say meant as much to him as Mycroft’s art did to Mycroft and… that was terrible. There wasn’t one thing that really reached into his soul to fire his life and he couldn’t help but stand in awe of the tall artist and what he was willing to endure to fight… well to fight for that soul.

   “You’re an amazing man, Mycroft Holmes. Absolutely and completely amazing and don’t you ever think any differently. You’ve got a huge heart and a lot of talent and… well, you kiss bloody well, too and I’ve got my own bit of experience to base that on, thank you very much. Now come here… I’d like another one of those kisses if you don’t mind.”

Mycroft tried to turn away because this beautifully compassionate man did not deserve to be touched by him again, but Greg was not having any of it, taking Mycroft’s head in his hands and kissing him firmly and deeply, until he felt the tension in the artist’s body begin to fade and their embrace become less of a battle and more of a victory. It was a hardship to have to break apart to take in fresh air.

   “I am not an amazing man, Gregory. That title belongs solely to you and there are no pretenders to your throne.”

   “Then how about I just drag my throne up next to yours on the pedestal and we can both look down at the little people scurrying about on the castle floor.”

And now a brighter smile. Mycroft was absolutely stunning when he allowed himself to really smile.

   “So colorful…”

   “And you like colorful, don’t you Mr. Artist.”

   “I very much do. Shall we… would you mind if we continued our walk? I find myself greatly enjoying this time and the longer it lasts, the greater the likelihood Sherlock might take some rest and I can avoid our confrontation when I return home.”

   “Yeah, I can understand that and I’d love to squire you around town some more, so I think we’ve got our evening planned….”

And he really shouldn’t do what he was about to do but… no one ever told him he was the genius this Sherlock was supposed to be.

   …I have to ask though… do you still…”

   “The winter months are difficult ones.”

It actually hurt to think about Mycroft in that crappy flat in the dead of winter. And now that he remembered, he actually hadn’t seen a heat source anywhere in that closet.

   “Not a lot of people walking around or wanting to sit a minute in the cold for a drawing.”

   “Such is the case, yes.”

Well, not this winter. There was no way under the heavens that Greg was going to let this man sell his arse for food if he could do anything to prevent it.

   “Who knows, though… winter’s still a ways off. Lots of things can change by then.”

   “I have learned to avoid hoping, Gregory, for dashed hopes cut more sharply than hopes never permitted birth.”

   “Yeah well, you didn’t know me before, did you? Already something’s changed for you and who’s to say it’s not the start of a pattern?”

A pattern that made his… the… artist happy and… yeah, lots of things could change by winter. Greg kept his eyes forward and a confident grin on his lips, thanking his very good peripheral vision that he could see the struggle in Mycroft’s eyes move through resignation to puzzlement to… oh there it was. No mistaking that light as anything but hope.

   “I shall give the matter serious consideration.”

   “You do that. In the meantime, I’ll just have to keep reinforcing my point of view.”

   “And I suspect you accomplish that in a most vigorous fashion.”

   “If the other person’s not screaming my point of view by the end of the discussion then… well, then I’ve got to keep going at it until they do!”

   “I applaud your commitment, my dear.”

And there was the please-lick-honey-out-of-my-navel voice that Greg loved so very much. New plan… keep the smile on Mycroft’s face and that slick-me-up voice purring in his throat.

   “Thank you, Mycroft. Tenacity and commitment – hallmarks of a successful police officer.”

   “And a good man.”

   “Now, you’ve got me blushing.”

   “Oh, I think I can do better. You are barely pink.”

   “Take your best shot, Mr. Renoir.”

   “And what do I win if I shade you cerise?”

   “That’ll be my surprise.”

   “And, I suspect, my delight.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg better understand each other, though there are still issues at home that keep Mycroft's life in turmoil...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to everyone leaving such great comments - I really appreciate the ideas and support!

Mycroft actually loved London at night. The lights painted the city in such beautiful hues and hid the flaws and the cracks that were far more glaring under the sun. Having someone to simply walk with and share that loveliness… someone who actually appreciated the sights and sounds as he did… that was a very unique and welcome experience. It wasn’t until the sun had risen that they finally turned back and Mycroft found himself returned to his flat.

   “Ok, that was possibly the nicest evening I’ve had in a long time. Thanks, Mycroft… I don’t often get a chance to just have fun like this and… I really liked it. Maybe we can do this again sometime soon.”

   “You would desire another evening with me?”

Greg wasn’t actually surprised by Mycroft’s slightly shocked tone. The man simply had no idea what a prize he really was.

   “Of course! This has been brilliant! Got to snog with a gorgeous man, get my brain picked on a lot of interesting topics… honest, I’ve had a great time. Why wouldn’t I want to do it again?”

Both men, however, were keenly aware why most people wouldn’t want to do it again. At best, a polite person would finish out the night and then never schedule a second meeting, but Lestrade wasn’t most people. Most people might think less of Mycroft because of the things he’d done, but maybe most people hadn’t seen the hardships out there and what happened to people when they just gave up on life or did even worse things to keep their heads above water. He didn’t steal, sell drugs… didn’t hurt anyone but himself… and did it mostly to keep his arse of a brother in school. Could be that what little he made from his art would be enough to keep one person in a heated flat and with new clothes once in a while, but not two… Nah, he couldn’t look down on Mycroft for any of that. He didn’t have like it, but he’d done things in life that, looking back, he couldn’t say he liked either, so there you go.

   “I would… be most eager to share more time with you, Gregory. This has been a very enjoyable and rewarding experience. I, unfortunately, do not… I have no telephone that you might use to reach me, however, I can be found in the same spot each day.”

   “Your own little island in London.”

   “Oh, very good. What an expressive description of my small plot of land. It is a talent you have, Gregory, to bring new eyes to my world and help me see it in a fresh and invigorating way.”

   “Well, anything I can do to be of service.”

   “That is a very broad statement, Police Constable. Are you certain you wish to place yourself in my hands in such an expansive fashion?”

As long as hands were involved, Lestrade was very certain he’d like the plan no matter what it was. And Mycroft’s smile said that a plan was already in the making.

   “I’ll take my chances. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, isn’t that what they say?”

   “Exceptionally astute. Then I look very much forward to seeing you again, though I do apologize for making this night a long one. I hope our streets shall not suffer unduly due to a fatigued protector.”

   “Can’t tell you the number of sleepless nights I’ve had on the job. It’s not a problem… I’m more worried your eyes will go crossed and you’ll paint some pretty girl’s picture to look like my Gran.”

   “Oh, not an attractive woman.”

   “Looked like a bulldog. Built like one, too, but with a far worse personality. My arse still hurts from getting taken over her knee for breaking her antique milk jug.”

   “Poor Gregory… but, still, an antique…”

   “She bought it at gift shop! Antique, my eye… it probably wasn’t as old as me.”

   “Well then, such a shame to have your robust bottom be so villainously used.”

   “Yeah, I want my nice firm bum heroically used, if you please.”

   “Oh, I do please. I simply lack the place and the time at the moment.”

Ok, so the man was smart, interesting, good-looking, liked him and they had no illusions that sex was very much something they both wanted. Lots of sex, in fact. Yep, this was the already the most successful relationship he’d ever had… 

   “Well, there’s always another opportunity. Guess, I’d better get going, though. Probably should at least show up at work wearing my uniform and a strong cup of something would help, too.”

   “Then I bid you farewell. And, you have my gratitude for this evening, Gregory. I have full faith our next will be equally as pleasant.”

   “I’ll do my best. Now come here and show me how grateful you really are.”

If a neighbor hadn’t left their building rather noisily, Lestrade might have found himself late for work, because time simply seemed to come to a stop when he was kissing the tall artist.

   “And is that sufficient, my dear?”

   “Ummm, not sure. But I’ll let you try again later.”

   “You are a gracious master, aren’t you?”

   “No use being a bastard when being nice has better benefits.”

   “Too true… now, away with you. I am sure we are creating quite the neighborhood scandal with our uninhibited passions.”

   “Oh fine, but next time I’ll make sure they get a really good show. Bye Mycroft.”

   “Goodbye, Gregory. Have a safe day.”

__________

Mycroft watched the policeman saunter away, keenly aware that Gregory was aware he was watching and putting an additional measure of sway in his hips. Such a scintillating man… really, unmatched in his experience. It had been so long since he had sought companionship… his life was far too complicated with Sherlock in residence and… well, other things needed to be taken into account when considering entering into a romantic relationship. In truth, it had kept him from any contact beyond the sexual with anyone for far longer than he cared to remember and those individuals never knew just how stained was his life. Gregory was the only one to fully know the darker side of his existence and… still accepted him. Wanted to see him again and continue to craft the very agreeable association they were currently building. Yes… such a scintillating man.

Mycroft knew that if he hoped Sherlock would be asleep, he would be sadly disappointed. And, walking into his flat, he was glad he hadn’t had to suffer that shattered wish.

   “I take it you simply moved your transaction to another location. I hope it was a profitable one, since he received a full night of your time.”

Sherlock was propped up on the bed, a book in one hand and a pen in the other.

   “Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Sherlock. Gregory is not to receive any further of your abuse. He is a decent and honorable man and, if you must be informed, was with me tonight engaged in nothing but conversation.”

   “He did not look as if he could follow a conversation, let alone participate in one.”

   “Not one more word of derision shall you direct towards him. I may have to suffer your insults, but you will not treat him with anything but respect.”

   “I find that unlikely. Anyone willing to associate with you, knowing your vulgar debasement cannot be deserving of any respect.”

   “Gregory is a good man and does not view my sins as something for which hell’s gates should be opened to receive me. He is generous of spirit and does not deserve your infantile spite.”

   “What a person does and does not deserve from me is something I reserve the right to decide. And that this conversation is continuing is evidence, I assume, that you plan on meeting him again.”

   “You would assume correctly. We shall have another assignation when his schedule permits.”

   “I somehow doubt that fact. Once the fact that he spent an unsatisfying evening with a whore…”

Sherlock rarely saw his brother show even a sliver of temper, or speed, but suddenly staring into his brother’s eyes, his face only inches from his own, hands braced against the wall on either side of his head… he thought that was probably for the best.

   “You sit there with your books that I have funded, in clothes for which I have paid, smelling of cigarettes that you purchased with my monies… and you dare, you dare to continue maligning what I have had to do to give you those things?”

   “You… you could find employment. Earn your wages with your mind or your hands rather than with your mouth.”

   “Firstly, every penny I can raise goes to giving you the chance for a degree and a future. I carry no degree and would have to work long hours for low wages to keep even this roof over our heads. I could no longer pursue the one thing in this world I cherish and…”

   “Your art. It has ruined you! You accept a life on your knees rather than…”

   “IT IS WHAT I LOVE! Something you can never understand because you have never loved. You had no love for our parents, you certainly have none for me… you barely have any for yourself, if your own little debasements are any indication. I have not checked in awhile brother, but what is the condition of your arms? If I count the money I have set aside for your textbooks, how much shall I find missing, injected instead into your veins for a fleeting moment of euphoria?”

Mycroft tore himself away from his brother, appalled at his outburst, but refusing to let Sherlock see his regret. It was not that any of it was false, but… it was not the way things should be handled with his brother.

   “Not again shall you speak ill of Gregory. You will treat him at least civilly when you meet or you shall make yourself absent when he is present. I will not tolerate anything else.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but saw the very dangerous darkness in his brother’s eyes and thought better of it.

   “The latter is the more pleasant of the two options.”

   “I truly do not care, so long as Gregory does not suffer any further of your petulant tantrums. I know this will mean nothing to you, Sherlock, however, I enjoy Gregory’s company and hope to continue enjoying it for as long as I am able. If that is offensive to you, then I am very sorry, but I shall not change my course of action because of it. I like him… and that is a rare thing for me. Now, do you not have an early lecture?”

Sherlock took the change of subject for what it was… the end of the conversation and only scowled at his brother as he rose from the bed and began to look for slightly cleaner and less-rumpled clothes to wear.

   “I shall not return early. There is work I must do in the laboratory and it will likely occupy me for most of the night.”

   “Very well. I shall put prepare you something to eat to carry with you. Please do actually consume it. I would rather not be summoned by your science partners to the A&E because you have collapsed from exhaustion and hunger. Again.”

   “If it makes you happy, Mummy.”

   “It does, Sherlock. No matter our… differences, do not ever doubt that”.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the day is lovely and our boys have a chance to enjoy it...

This was not the way to reassure a worried maybe hopefully potentially lover.  Tell them that their life hasn’t scared you away and then have no contact with them for three days.  Brilliant!  Of course, it was the job’s fault.  Lovely days, pleasant nights and every person in London enjoying their own personal crime spree.  Every time he got a moment free it was fuck o’clock in the morning, falling-on-the-ground tired and he was no use to anyone even for conversation.  If only Mycroft had a telephone, it would make things easier, but… well, no use wishing for what wasn’t to be.  But he’d make it up today.  Today was going to be a good day and he had the whole thing off.  One full day to spend out in the sunshine, watching Mycroft draw, maybe paint… he had a book in his pocket and, now, a bag full of what he hoped was the makings of a romantic picnic.  That should, hopefully, salve any hurt feelings his… friend… might have over the lack of contact.

And it looked like there _were_ hurt feelings, too… not that he was spying or anything.  Hiding behind a building and peeking around the corner was _not_ spying.  It was gazing from afar.  When Mycroft was at his easel or with his sketchbook he looked serene… at peace.  Not today.  Today he looked tired.  Dejected.  Maybe not everyone would notice because he was still favoring every passerby with a brilliant smile and moving with that almost inhuman grace that was purely seduction made human, but there was a dullness at the edges that broke Lestrade’s heart.  But, it also gave him a little boost, because he couldn’t doubt that Mycroft had hopes for their relationship that were very much in line with his and that was… good.  Really, really good.  Good enough to lean against the wall and take a few moments to just soak up the feeling of finding something good and knowing he could actually have it.  One majestic, wonderful, man who he could touch and kiss and… ok, now it was time to quit being a daydreaming stalker and actually put the light back in Mycroft’s smile.

            “Looks like you’re having a busy day.”

He’d made sure Mycroft was focused on his work so he could affect a surprise attack.  Apparently there was a five-year-old living inside his head who thought this was the appropriate way to greet someone, though the way Mycroft’s pad and pencil went flying said maybe five year olds were idiots.

      “Gregory!  Oh my… you startled me.  I… I had thought…”

      “Yeah, I can bet what you thought.  It’s been a crazy few days and this is the first time I’ve actually had any real chance to come and see you.  But I’m here now, if that’s ok?  And look!  Brought lunch.  And a book.  Thought I’d sit and relax and watch you work.  That won’t drive away business, will it?”

It took Mycroft a few seconds to draw his mind together to answer because, in shameful honesty, he had thought he would never again see the man standing in front of him.  Despite his reassuring words, there had been no contact, which had not actually surprised him, but it had _hurt_.  Now, however he was here and Mycroft felt the tight little knot in his chest loosen so he could breathe again.

      “Not at all.  And if it did, I would still beg you to sit with me and share the afternoon.  Please, allow me to remove these few things and… voila.  Your own box on which to sit.  I would offer you something grander, however…”

      “Box is fine.  I’ll keep my eye out for a folding chair someone’s discarded, though.  Got my nightstand that way.  Coat of paint and it was good as new.”

      “Ah, it is good to meet a fellow aficionado of pre-owned commodities.”

      “I like to think of it as recycling.  Makes me part of the green movement.  And it takes away some of the guilt when I get my coffee double-cupped to stay hot.”

      “Ah, a situational environmentalist.  I heartily approve.”

Lestrade took his seat and looked at the canvas on which Mycroft was working.

      “Oh, that’s interesting.  Not a street around here though, is it?”

      “You have a keen eye, Gregory.  In my youth, we traveled on occasion and this is a street in Vienna that particularly attracted my attention.  The combination of light and form and energy… it stays with me to this day.  I find it a calming subject to sketch or paint when my mind cannot be so described.”

Lestrade ran a hand over Mycroft’s thigh and nodded him over for a kiss.  Which calmed something in Lestrade’s _own_ mind… the man was absolutely delicious and kissed like he’d won the auction for the nimblest tongue on the planet.  Which he would absolutely not think about nimbling around other parts of his body… lapping and swirling and if he kept refusing to _not_ think about Mycroft’s tongue he was going to drive away Mycroft’s customers with a very public display of needing to have an erection taken care of. 

      “I’m sorry.  Didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”

      “I cannot fault you for diligently safeguarding the welfare of my fellow citizens.  It would be inexcusably rude of me.”

      “And, of course, a man of your character is never rude.  Next time I’ll see if I can slip a note under your door or something on my way home.”

There went the last trace of darkness in Mycroft’s eyes and what a sweet little shine rose up it its place.

      “You could slip _yourself_ through the door and deliver your message instead.  Perhaps with your rest taken in my humble bed rather than at your own residence, which would save you precious time to sleep that would be wasted on the additional journey.  That is a far more efficient plan, wouldn’t you say?”

Work until he was ready to drop then curl up against Mycroft’s lanky body to catch a few hours of… well, rest would be involved at some point, most likely… before he had to go back out again to keep the city safe from evildooers?  Efficient really wasn’t the best vocabulary word for that concept.

      “No, I’d say it was the idea of the century and if you lived alone, you _would_ probably have a guest now and then who steals the covers and has a tendency to be an octopus.”

Wicked and playful… if Mycroft in the bedroom was as sexy as his smile, Lestrade was going to have to start working out a little more so that he could make the most of the experience.

      “I hope you have not received complaints from your former partners for such rambunctious behavior.”

      “If I had, it’d be from my extra pillow and he’s not talking.  I… let’s just say I usually don’t hang about for the dreaded ‘morning after’ conversation.  I guess I’ll have to rely on you for a real firsthand description.”

Oh, so not fair.  Mix wicked and playful with a splash of smug and just a hint of bashful and you get a look that shouldn’t be legal.  Not legal at all because that expression could be more addictive than any drug they had out there on the street in any city in the world.  God, was it possible to ever find out just _how_ gorgeous Mycroft Holmes could be?  Was there even a limit?

      “Then I am happy to be of service.  I shall provide a very thorough description of your nightly activities, though if I am to be candid, it is my hope that you shall be sufficiently exhausted by the time you are _able_ to fall asleep that your slumber shall be both deep and quiet.”

Not fair not fair not fair… here they were, surrounded by what seemed like every person in London and all he wanted to do was drag the blasted artist over to that lovely bit of grass, strip him naked and show him exactly the meaning of exhausted, but the only thing that could sink into his mouth right now was a hunk of pretty good cheddar, the other half of which he obligingly popped between Mycroft’s lips after the artist parted them in a very nasty piece of silent begging that went right on Lestrade’s growing ‘Mycroft’s gonna pay for that’ list.

      “You know there’s nothing I want more than for you to get everything you ever hope for.”

Mycroft’s laugh was exactly what you wanted blending with your own during a great comedy on the telly or when you’ve tried something really stupid when very naked and it goes as nakedly stupid as you thought it might but decided to give it a try anyway.

      “You are a treasure, Gregory.  King Midas could not want for better.”

      “And you… oop, hey, I think that woman’s dragging her gent over.  Put on the salesman’s face.”

      “Well spotted.  We shall return to this momentarily.”

      “I hope not.  I bet you can finagle a double portrait out of this and charge a nice fee for your work.  You can tell she’s got him by the bollocks and what fine bollocks-gripping lady doesn’t want a beautiful portrait of herself and her bank account?”

      “Gregory, do behave.”

      “Mark my words…”

      “Consider them marked.”

__________

Lestrade made Mycroft formally announce that the great Gregory Lestrade was a brilliant detective even though he had a ways to go before he could call it official and then made the artist feed him a few plump berries whose juice had to be corralled with Lestrade’s own not-new-to-the-game-thank-you-very-much tongue.  They’d bought one rather fetching portrait done in pencil that Lestrade had to admit he’d rather have kept than let Mycroft send home with the people who paid for it.  It was amazing…  but the best part was watching Mycroft _create_ the amazing.  _This_ … this was when he was the most gorgeous.  It really couldn’t get any better.  There was an air of serenity about him so intense it nearly radiated off of his body.  There was no other way to say it but that Mycroft _loved_ his art.  Even a drawing done while sitting on a box for people who could very well decide to stick it in a drawer for all eternity had him glowing with such feeling that Lestrade almost felt like a voyeur watching Mycroft work.  But when Mycroft asked him how he wished to spend the rest of the afternoon, Lestrade had only one answer.

      “Watching you work.  And reading.  Brought a book I’ve been wanting to get into, the day’s nice… and I really want to watch you work some more.  But, if it bothers you, I can…”

      “NO!  I mean… no.  It will not disturb me in the slightest.  In truth, it was enjoyable knowing you were watching the progression of my work.  I would not have thought having an audience would be such a rewarding experience, but I find that it is, so please observe as much as you desire.”

      “You forgot I was even here, didn’t you?”

This look was all bashful, not a bit smug, and that patch of grass was looking more and more inviting.  Most likely he could get a little thing like public indecency expunged from their records.  What good was being on the job if you couldn’t make an annoying little arrest for lewdness go away?

      “How angry would you be with me if I assented?  However, ‘forgotten’ is an inaccurate term, perhaps.  It was more that you became part of the process as opposed to being outside of it.  You were integral to the reality of the moment and, therefore, did not stand apart from the experience.”

      “Wow… I like that.  That’s really a brilliant compliment.  Thank you.”

Ok, maybe _this_ look was the most gorgeous - Mycroft looking at him with what almost seemed like wonder.”

      “Few, perhaps, would view it in that manner but I am honored that you do so.  And you are correct… it _is_ a compliment in its own way, one I cannot say I have ever bestowed on another.”

      “Then we’ve got our afternoon planned.  Get to work, you lazy thing.  That street picture you’re working on is not going to paint itself.”

      “Such a cruel and unyielding taskmaster.”

      “You love it.”

      “Yes… I must say that I do.”

__________

It was an afternoon where Lestrade accomplished nothing.  Snacked, read, got some sun… not even much conversation to speak of.  And it was the best afternoon he could remember.  People stopped by Mycroft’s easel to see what he was doing and the artist was good at pulling them into a discussion that often had the visitor walk away with something Mycroft produced and Mycroft tucking away a note or two, though never enough in Lestrade’s opinion.  He understood it… charge too much and no one would buy, but it hurt to see Mycroft’s talent go so cheaply.  And no matter who stopped to buy that talent, they received all of Mycroft’s attention.  He poured as much of his soul into the smallest sketch as he did a larger piece and Lestrade learned that touching Mycroft while he worked resulted in the artist leaning slightly into his fingers, even though the PC was certain that Mycroft’s brain had no idea what the body was doing.  Inside the reality and not apart from it… yeah, that was a compliment if he’d ever heard one and, without doubt, the most interesting and… meaningful… one he’d ever had.   It was only when the light began to wane and the traffic flow began to ebb that Lestrade moved from his box to stand behind the taller man and draw him back so he could lean against something for the first time all day.

      “You pamper me, Gregory.  Beware, it is something to which I could become very accustomed.”

      “Fine with me.  I’m happy to pamper someone as talented as you are.  Really, Mycroft, I’m amazed at what you can do.  I don’t have anything like that I can claim to do… it’s something special, truly special.”

      “What you have is of incalculable value, Gregory Lestrade, and do not allow me to think that you are forgetting that simple fact or I will implement a lesson to remind you of your inherent worth that shall be of prolonged duration and perhaps require specialized paraphernalia if it is to properly and thoroughly drive home.”

      “I’m a lowly simpleton.  Just a boil on the arse of a flea on a rather stupid rat.”

      “Oh my, you do enjoy courting danger.”

      “Of course.  I enjoy courting _you_ , don’t I?”

      “Oh… and is that our current status?  We are courting?”

      “Sounds fancier than dating.  Oh!  And I nearly forgot… we’re doing dinner tonight, if you don’t have any other plans.  And I brought… crap, where’d I put it… ok, I wrote down the addresses of a couple of galleries not too far from here that have something going on and I thought that maybe we could go and check them out after putting something in our stomachs besides picnic food.”

Lestrade saw Mycroft’s hand reaching into his pocket and knew it was to gauge what he had for funds.  The young PC had no issue dragging the hand back out of Mycroft’s pocket and raising it for a quick kiss.

      “I asked _you_ out tonight.  It’s a rule that the one that does the asking does the paying.  You ask me out and you pay, simple as that.  So, are you willing to come out with me tonight or are you too tired of seeing my face already?”

Mycroft Holmes thinking through a problem was entertaining to watch because it was as if you could see an entirely different side of himself in action as he brought out a different set of skills than he used for his art.  Luckily, the final analysis yielded a smile and Lestrade gave his hand a longer kiss before he lowered it and himself so that he could kneel and wrap his arms around his artist’s waist.

      “I think I just got myself a date for tonight.  We can drop off your stuff and then go and tear the city apart.”

      “We shall have to have a very fortifying meal if we are to accomplish such a herculean task.”

      “I’ve already got a place in mind.  And… I don’t know if you have to be home at a certain hour for your brother, but… well, I’ve seen your place but you’ve never seen mine.  We could swing by for a drink or something before I walk you home.  If that’s ok with you.”

Mycroft swung his body around without breaking Lestrade’s embrace and smiled at the man now in front of him.

      “I believe I am very agreeable to the suggestion.  To be escorted out for an evening and end the time with a relaxing drink in a welcoming place… you _do_ pamper me, Gregory, but I cannot find it in myself to care at the moment.”

      “Good.  And get used to it.  You may not believe it, but it’s me that’s having all the fun here.  And I get the reward of seeing that killer smile and watching you work your magic on your paper and canvas.  A little pampering is the absolute least I can do to get all of that in return.  So, what can I do to help you pack up?”

Mycroft tried, as he had _been_ trying, to think of why this man could be so good to him and still could not articulate, even to himself, a compelling reason.  However, perhaps there were times when reasons were not required and one simply had to take matters on faith.  Though it surprised him somewhat, for the first time in a very, very long time, Mycroft found that he was very willing, this once, to nurture a little faith…


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade was relieved that Mycroft’s bastard of a brother wasn't around when they returned Mycroft’s supplies to his flat because it let him finally kiss the artist in the way he’d been wanting since he first laid eyes on him today.  It started hard and deep and mellowed into something softer that made Mycroft’s body become nearly boneless in Lestrade’s arms.

      “This is a stellar way to conclude my day’s labor, Gregory.  Thank you.”

      “Anytime.  If I could promise you I’d do it every day, I’d have no problem making that promise.  But, I’ll have to settle for I’ll do it whenever I can, instead.”

      “More than fair.  And exactly as welcome.  You have the uncanny ability to enliven my spirits, Gregory, and enrich my days.  I feel you should know that and, further, that it is a unique experience for me.”

Lestrade wished desperately he had Mycroft’s way with words.  Everything the man said was the right thing, the perfect thing to shoot straight through him and make him feel… like he was on top of the world.  And that was a unique experience for _him_.

      “You’re pretty good in that department yourself and I plan on taking advantage of you as often as possible.  In as many ways as possible.”

At least Lestrade knew he had a killer sex grin in his bag of tricks and turned it full force on his partner who he was pleased to see returned it in full.

      “I believe we have an evening ahead of us of art, dining and relaxation in your flat… I am quite anxious to proceed through each of those steps, with, perhaps, some additional lingering on the final one.  if, of course, that is acceptable to you?”

Lingering… lingering was good.  Lingering was _very_ good.  Lingering could last a long time and he really wanted to get a chance to linger with this lovely man for a nice long time.

      “Very acceptable.  You ready to go?”

      “Of course.  Oh, a moment though.”

Lestrade watched Mycroft open a drawer in the tiny dresser next to the bed and draw out an old, slightly frayed green scarf.  With a quick flourish the scarf was around his neck and Lestrade wondered if he could ask Mycroft to take him right then and there, wearing just the scarf.  One little piece of fabric and his man was _dashing_.

      “Now, I appear as the bohemian I strive to be.”

If bohemian was a synonym for god of sex and lust, then he’d hit the nail on the head.

      “I think you look smashing.  Completely and totally gorgeous and I only wish I was in my uniform to change the mind of any idiot that tries to hit on you when my back is turned.”

No… no no no no no… don’t make the bashful eyes.  This was not helping them get out of the door and away from the bed for naked-but-for-a-scarf, bite-mark-leaving, so-filthy-it-should-be-filmed sexy sex.

      “You are too kind, Gregory.  And I would not worry about an interloper trespassing within your territorial boundaries.  I am quite capable of safeguarding myself from hands that would touch what was yours.”

The last three words whispered against the rim of Lestrade’s ear absolutely snapped the PC control.  In the next moment, he had Mycroft pinned against the door, pulling away the scarf because in this fantasy it was in his way.

      “Damn right you’re mine.  Not gonna let you forget that, either.”

Lestrade attacked Mycroft’s neck and used teeth after hearing Mycroft’s deep and needy moan.  Mycroft would wear some of Lestrade’s own art on his body and god help anyone who ignored it.

      “Please, Gregory…”

The PC pulled back only long enough to kiss his lover’s beautiful parted lips and drink in his slightly closed, pupil-black eyes.

      “Don’t worry, love.  I’ll give you what you need.”

And what he needed was already pressing heavily against Lestrade’s own growing erection, but he didn't care about his own pleasure right now.  Right now was about laying his claim on this glorious man and proving he could make him happy.  Show him he was worth Mycroft wearing his mark on his skin.  It took only a few seconds to unfasten the artist’s trousers and slip his hand between cloth and flesh to feel his Mycroft’s stiffening cock and smiled that there was already fluid beading at the tip.

      “That’s what I like.  Your body knows who makes it happy, knows who’ll take care of it properly.”

And Lestrade knew he could.  Knew he could give Mycroft exactly what he wanted, because he could feel him.  Feel him, sense him, read him… like this Mycroft was wide open and he could see everything he needed to make his lover sing.  And, as soon as they could devote a full night to each other, he would make that abundantly clear.  For now, he could give the artist a taste of what was to come and continued to lay a prominent mark on his man’s neck while stroking his long and iron-hard erection, taking every whimper and moan and please and more as proof Mycroft approved of his skills, the final proof coming with a sharp inhale, a stiffening of his lover’s body and hot splashes of semen captured by his own thick fingers.  This time when he pulled back it was to take in the whole picture of the debauched artist and he wanted to growl at the sight of his mark blazing on Mycroft’s pale skin, his softening cock, glistening  with evidence of his satisfaction, the reddened lips and those eyes… almost drowsy in their bliss.  His?  Of course this magnificent creature was his.  Just as surely as _he_ belonged completely to the man who was slowly starting to return to reality.

Lestrade laid tiny, tender kisses on Mycroft’s lips and whispered his promise to return before grabbing a flannel from a drawer by the sink and using the wet cloth to begin cleaning his Mycroft’s beautiful body.

      “That’s my love.  Everything you do is perfect.  The way you paint, the way you speak, the way you move, the way moan, the way you come… just perfect.  And all that perfection is mine to explore.”

      “At your leisure, Gregory.  And… may I assume I have a similar privilege?”

      “Like you said, at your leisure.  Can’t wait for you to take me apart.”

And that declaration was sealed with a long kiss, while Lestrade finished tidying his man and tucking him back into buttoned and zipped trousers.

      “And that time is not now?”

      “Nah, did what I wanted to do and I can’t begin to tell you how satisfied I am right now.”

Lestrade reached up and caressed Mycroft’s neck, rubbing the artist’s new decoration with his thumb.  It was really a pity it would be hidden by his scarf, but that scarf was going back on as soon as they were ready to leave.  The green scarf of sex was far too important to leave behind.

      “Possessive…”

      “Never was before, actually.  But with you… yeah.  Not gonna share this treasure with anyone.”

As Lestrade’s hand moved to caress Mycroft’s cheek the artist covered it with his own.

      “Good.  I find no flaw with that plan.”

      “Yeah, me neither.  So… you think we can make it out of your flat this time?”

Mycroft’s laugh made Lestrade laugh in turn and for a few moments they simply held each other, giggling at the absurdity of it all and the wonderful luck that had brought them together.

      “I believe we shall, at least, make a most conscientious effort to do so.”

      “Then let’s give it a try.  I’m expecting to learn something about art tonight and you’ll probably need extra time to try and get it through my head.”

      “I suspect that your ability to appreciate and criticize art is already at a level greater than 90% of the city’s population.  However, I am quite eager to share this experience with you.”

      “Me too.  So…”

Lestrade scooped Mycroft’s scarf off the floor and wrapped it around his neck.

      “… let’s go.”

__________

It had been a source of concern for the young PC that he’d make a fool of himself at the galleries, but Mycroft seemed to have been right.  The people they were mingling with had no more idea about what they were looking at than he did, though they did their best to try and convince anyone who’d listen that they did.  The first gallery they visited had a showing of some landscapes and city scenes and he listened avidly as Mycroft talked about composition and proportion and light and perspective and all sorts of things that started to make sense after they looked at several pieces and he began to see the patterns.  And the incongruities.  And things that united pieces for a single artist and made them different from another.  He’d actually dated a bird once who was studying art history and tried to read one of her books, only to find none of it made any sense. But the way Mycroft explained things, it all came together.

Even at the second gallery, which was offering modern works full of splatters and lines and shapes and none of it actually looked like anything you’d recognize, Mycroft walked him through things and Lestrade started to see more than splatters and lines and crap that looked like they’d sneezed onto a canvas when they’d had a bloody nose.  He still couldn't say he’d want one of these on his wall, but at least he wouldn't mind coming back and looking at more, so long as Mycroft was there to help him make sense of them.

      “Are you enjoying yourself, Gregory?”

      “A lot, actually.  I've never done this before and I like it.  I’m not sure if I would have if you hadn't been here, though.  Most of the time all I see is a pretty picture or someone’s spilled paint, but now… I’m getting it.  I’m starting to see what all the fuss is about.  And I’d love to do this again.  That’s good with you, right?”

Mycroft threaded his fingers through Lestrade’s and gave his hand a squeeze.  Someone with whom to share his art as he created it and to enjoy London’s art world in way he had honestly not had the motivation to do so himself.  He’d thought when they moved to London that his life would at least include this, exploring the galleries and studios and museums, but it quickly became a very lonely way to spend his free time.  It was no one’s fault but his that he shied away from making friends, due to his difficult-to-explain life, but it didn't change the situation.  He was alone in London and emphasizing that fact only added to the heaviness of his heart.  Now… Gregory had no idea what he had brought Mycroft’s life…

      “I would greatly enjoy repeating this evening.  I have yet to truly take time and investigate what London has to offer for art and I can think of no better companion with whom to share my investigations. I must admit that this is very exciting for me, Gregory.  It is very exciting, indeed.  You are certain you would not mind escorting me for these little excursions?”

      “Not a bit.  I can’t guarantee how often because, well, you’re starting to see what my schedule can be like, but, yeah… I’d really like to do this with you.”

It would be fun and, more importantly, it would make Mycroft happy.  A simple thing, but it put a glow on the face of artist that he’d gladly do the most complicated, expensive thing in the world to keep in place.  It was crazy; they barely knew each other, but it was true.  Mycroft had slipped so far under his skin it was like he’d been waiting for him and left the door open for when he arrived.  And now he had… 

      “Then we shall.  Thank you, Gregory.  This means a great deal to me.”

      “I know, love.  It does to me, too.”

__________ 

“Heavens, my dear… how many dishes did your order?”

Lestrade smiled wide watching the waiter unload plate after plate of food from the serving tray to place on their table.   He loved this place – best Chinese in the area and so cheap you could order enough at one sitting to have another meal and a snack left over to carry home.  Or, in this case, send home with Mycroft.  Who could protest being given their half of the leftovers?  Mycroft would probably know what he was doing, but Lestrade didn't care.  He’d held the artist in his arms enough times know just how thin he really was under his clothing and it was getting harder to bear the sting of grabbing something filling for lunch and remembering that Mycroft probably hadn't eaten anything yet that day.  And might go to bed without that changing.

      “That’s why I come here!  I can order a little of everything, eat until I burst and then take home the rest to have the next day.  And the food’s great.  I got some spicy things and some mild, mixed up the meats.  Don’t worry, I’m an expert at this.”

Mycroft simply shook his head and helped himself to a large spoonful of whatever was closest to him and… well, there had certainly been no exaggeration as to the quality of their meal.

      “See!  That’s a happy smile if I ever saw one.  First rule of police work… find the best, cheapest and fastest places to eat and these guys meet all three of those.  So tell me, we didn't talk much about your day today.  Was that normal for you?”

      “Normal?”

      “Yeah… number of customers, types of things you worked on… that sort of thing.”

      “Ah.  Then I would have to say yes, it was a normal day.  A bit more busy than other days, but the weather was excellent and that always serves to improve business.  And between clients, I do work on my own projects or, as you occupied yourself, indulge in a bit of reading.  Perhaps it is not the most exciting of ways to spend one’s day, however…”

      “No!  It’s great… really, you’re doing what you want to do and enjoying it.  That’s what we all look for, I think.  Find a job that lets us do the things we like and that makes us happy.  Doesn't matter if other people would think it was interesting or not.”

      “Perhaps you are right.  And is the same true for you, Gregory?  Are you doing what you want most to do?”

      “Sure, I think I am.  Always liked the idea of being on the job and I can’t say that, now that I’m there, it’s different than I’d thought it would be.  I’m hoping to get up the ranks, though.  Get my detective’s stamp and start to really get into some interesting cases.  That’s the only thing I don’t like about being on the street like this.  You get the easy things to deal with and if you are involved in a big case, it’s just as a worker bee to be ordered around.  I want to get the chance to dig into things that _aren't_ easy or quick and I’ll get my chance someday.  I’m not going to stop trying until I do.”

And Mycroft had no doubt that was true.  The PC would work long and hard hours to get to where he wanted to be and it was a very warm rush of pride that flowed into Mycroft’s bones.  Perhaps it was not surprising that Gregory understood the lengths one would go to for one’s dream.  And why Mycroft would sit and be at the mercy of the elements and the whims of the passersby for the few notes he took home at the end of each day.

      “And you will get your chance, my dear.  Of that I am supremely convinced.  And I am certain that you will thrive in that role, accomplishing all of the things you wish and experiencing the satisfaction you crave.”

      “Really?  Well, if you believe it then I’m not going to argue.  I’ll just say thanks and let you have this plump and tasty egg roll as your reward.”

      “Oh, you do know the ways to my heart, do you not?”

      “And the ones I haven’t found, I’ll be looking for, so don’t make them too hard to find, ok?”

      “Transparency shall be my watchword.”

      “That’s what I like to hear.  And try some of that pork… that’s killer.”

And have more tea, love.  And lots of vegetables so you get some vitamins.  Lestrade wanted to just start feeding the man sitting across from him who was eating daintily and with all the manners he was raised with.  As much of a priority as feeding his love for art was going to be feeding Mycroft’s need for actual food.  That brother of his wasn’t this skinny, so somehow he was getting a little more to eat and Lestrade was pretty damned sure how it was happening.  Well, he was on the case now.  Mycroft wasn’t going to keep wasting away if he could do something about it, but he’d have to make sure not trample Mycroft’s pride in the process.  That was not something he’d ever do to this wonderful man, so tonight, leftovers.  Next time around, maybe a little pasta at his flat.  And… oh yes… they still had their bit of wine to look forward to… wine wasn’t the best nutritional bargain, but it did count as calories, or so he’d been told.

      “You’re quite right, Gregory, it is absolutely succulent.”

      “And there’s plenty, so eat up.  I’m going to tackle the chicken.”

__________

      “So, here it is.  Not much, but it’s just me and I’m not here that often.”

And he’d cleaned the place up, too, hoping that he’d be entertaining tonight.  Lestrade knew he’d have to make that a normal thing, too.  Somehow, he had a feeling Mycroft liked things neat.

      “It is very comfortable, Gregory.  And so tidy.”

Damn, but he was good.  Detective, no, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade… that had a nice sound to it.

      “Thanks for that.  So, can I pour you some wine?”

      “I would like that.  This has truly been a day of days, and a little wine would be the perfect way to draw it to a close.”

And it wasn’t a bad wine if Lestrade could be allowed to boast.  Made a special stop this morning to get a little help picking something decent that he could afford.  He poured two glasses and motioned Mycroft to join him on the sofa.

      “Here’s a toast – to our first proper date.”

      “Ah… how intriguing.  And you are quite right.  Thank you, Gregory, how young I suddenly feel.”

      “Yeah, you’re a pitiful old man.  You know you’re welcome here, right?  Stop by anytime.  You know where I am now, so, since you don’t have a phone, you can leave your own note under my door to slide yourself through it and join me for the night.  Speaking of… you’ll stay tonight?  I have to be up early, but I’d like it you stayed.  And just to sleep, too.  That’s really what I want, just the chance to sleep with you, if that’s not too silly a thing to ask.”

If only Lestrade knew how long Mycroft had wanted to do just that with someone.  Lay against them at night with no expectations, just the comfort of real affection warming him as surely as the blankets that covered them both.  Sex he experienced had far more of than he was happy to admit, but affection… he had waited so long…

      “It is no manner silly, in fact, the idea sounds extremely pleasant.  I cannot envision a finer way to spend the night than at your side.”

Always with the right words at the right time… and he’d said yes.  Lestrade had worried that he’d sound ridiculous asking Mycroft to sleep with him and just sleep, but it really _was_ the only thing he wanted.  Ever since Mycroft brought it up, him staying over at Mycroft’s flat, the thought had been an itch in his mind.  He wanted the closeness, the contentment… they’d have plenty of time for sex but tonight… tonight he wanted the other things and only those.  And, he had to admit, part of it was that strange, but powerful, urge to prove himself.  Mycroft had a lot of men want one thing from him and he needed for the artist to know that he was different.  That he wanted the whole package and valued that package greatly.  Yeah, tonight would be about indulging himself in having his Mycroft snug and safe in his bed, sleeping securely in his arms, as well as showing the artist that these things were as important as rumpling the sheets.

      “Great… then some wine, maybe a little music… and we can call it a night.”

      “A toast – to our first night together.”

      “Oh, I’ll definitely drink to that.  And hope it’s only the first of many.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere gratitude for the wonderful support and encouragement I've received for this story - it means a great deal to me...

Mycroft tried to stretch, but found himself held in a tangle of arms and legs so complex that he somewhat suspected the PC had grown a few extra limbs during the night.  Not that he minded in the slightest, however.  In fact, nestling deeper into that tangle was the most pleasurable experience he had enjoyed in a very long time.  An exquisite evening of pure magic and then… a long night of sharing a body-heated bed with a man who had quickly and successfully stormed into his life, planted his flag and started to build settlements.  And it was a spectacular thing.  Gregory was an absolute enigma… decent, respectable, faithful to the law, yet he somehow found it within himself to embrace someone who was none of those things.  And that embrace was wholehearted.  There were no caveats or codicils, no demands or insistences.  It made no sense, but Mycroft was not about to question it too closely.  He had been certain that he had relinquished his right to someone like this when he made the decisions that shaped the past years of his life, but now, if it was possible to hold onto this magnificent man, he would do everything in his power to do just that.

      “Someone’s thinking.  Your body changes when it’s sending all its blood and stuff up to your brain.”

Powerful arms tightened around Mycroft’s form and equally-powerful legs twined themselves more fully among the artist’s own.

      “Really?  I shall have to reflect on that observation.  It would make an interesting point of view for a self-portrait series.”

Warm lips touched Mycroft’s neck and the taller man leaned back into the kiss.

      “I really love it that you live your art.  Always thinking about it…”

More kisses were laid against Mycroft’s skin and he wondered how the PC would describe his body now as it was slowly melting into a warm pool of bliss.

      “…looking at things from that set of eyes…”

And Gregory’s fingers were nearly as warm as his lips as they trailed over his stomach, which fluttered at the attention.

      “…anxious to create something new…”

Mycroft just sighed and let his body feel.  It was such a simple thing, really, but nothing in which he had ever been allowed to indulge.  To let his mind settle and focus solely on the sensation.

      “…letting it shape your life.  You’re so strong to let it do that… and so goddam sexy for it, too.”

Stoking his skin, mind, heart… Gregory was as masterful with his seductions as Rubens was with his brushes.  Such a gloriously predatory man, yet Mycroft felt utterly safe in his arms.  Safe and wanted… which was a very different thing than desired, though he felt that, also.

      “And you know how sexy you are, don’t you?  This beautiful skin and every movement… every breath… so graceful and gorgeous…”

Was there a reason to ever leave this bed?  If one existed, it completely eluded Mycroft’s mind.

      “How about we grab a shower?”

Ah, that would be an _excellent_ reason.

      “I find that a very pleasant suggestion.”

      “The better suggestion would be to stay in bed all day, but I’ve got to leave soon and I’d like to have time to share a nice, hot shower with a nice, hot man and then put some breakfast in our stomachs.”

Hot shower?  How interesting that Mycroft’s brain no longer linked the two words and the phrase took him completely by surprise.  A hot shower and breakfast… the luxury was decadent.  Nearly as decadent as the man who was nudging him out of bed with something that was not his hands.

      “Very well, I shall forsake this comfortable nest and take my fledgling steps into the cold, harsh world.”

      “Won’t be cold and harsh for long, I promise.”

And Lestrade meant that in all the ways he possibly could.  What a night!  The first part was the perfect date, then the evening of just talking and laughing, then the night of absolute contentment.  They’d just stripped down to their pants, crawled under the blankets and went to sleep.  No conversations about who got which side or working out how to get comfortable with someone else in the bed.  It just all fell together naturally, like they’d been together for years.  The only thing Lestrade would change is when he held his Mycroft, he’d feel more than bone under the skin.  Right now, though, that skin was going to get worshipped the way it should be.  Hot water, sudsy soap, his hands moving that sudsy soap all over the long tracts of milky skin… ok, they needed to get in the shower now.

Lestrade hopped out of bed and stood next to Mycroft, taking a moment to kiss the artist on the cheek before taking his hand and leading him to the shower, which he got good and warm before tossing off his one piece of clothing and wriggling down the waistband of Mycroft’s.  Christ, but the man was a vision.  A skinny vision, but still a vision.

      “After you, Mr. Holmes.”

      “So polite.  It is truly one of your most stellar qualities.”

      “And here I thought you wanted me for… other things.”

Lestrade took Mycroft in his arms and pressed their bodies together, slowly swaying his own back and forth to deliver a very significant amount of heavenly friction to certain parts of their anatomy.

      “I… I do believe _other things_ also rank very highly on the list.”

      “Oh yeah, but never as highly as this…”

One very long, slow and gentle kiss sent a warm and non-sexual thrill through Mycroft’s body.  Gregory cared for _him_.  Not pieces or parts of him, but _him_ in all his flawed and fault-filled glory.  And it was him that was being pulled into the shower to let the deliciously warm water flow over his skin in a way he’d nearly forgotten.

      “See that smile?  Well, you can’t actually see it, can you, but that’s the best.  You’ve got the best smile I’ve ever seen.”

      “Then you have not looked in the mirror in quite some time, Gregory.”

      “Nah, you win this one and I’m not even going to complain about it.  I’ll even give you a nice prize for having that smile…”

Lestrade worked up a heavy lather with the soap and began to work it across Mycroft’s chest.

      “I do believe a Nobel Prize would fall far short of this award.”

      “You better believe it.  Greg Lestrade doesn’t take time to give a wash to just anyone.  Got to be someone very special.  Got to be tall and handsome and funny and smart and talented and have a fantastic body… I mean, there’s not anyone else with a cute bum like this.”

Which could nearly fit in one of Lestrade’s large hands, but using two to play with his new toy was twice the fun.

      “How diligent of you to be so thorough in your cleaning efforts.”

      “I’m all about diligence.   Can’t let one little part get missed or I’d be shamed to death.  For example, this piece right here, even though it’s a bit rude since it keeps growing so I have to keep washing…”

When his time was bought and paid for, Mycroft rarely experienced so much as a partial erection, not that those partners cared in the slightest, but the simplest touch from this man aroused him heavily.  No, sex and affection were most certainly not the same thing.

      “I feel certain that the problem will be remedied quite soon if you continue along your current path.”

      “Is my Mycroft getting close already?  Can’t have that just yet, but… you’re so lovely all flushed and hard and with those big, lusty eyes… I know what to do…”

Lestrade turned his lover to face the shower wall and took Mycroft’s hand, placing it where his own had been.

      “Now, you take control of that and I _do_ mean control.”

Pressing his hips against Mycroft’s backside, Lestrade wriggled a little until his own rapidly growing body part was wedged snugly between Mycroft’s lean thighs.

      “Now you’ve gotta pay attention and stay with me, right?  Don’t come until I’m ready, I want to do this together.”

Mycroft nodded and let his mind focus again on a very narrow slice of the here and now.  The only things that existed in the world were himself and the man thrusting his hips against him.  It was then a simple thing to synchronize his body with his lover’s and follow his Gregory’s lead until they both experienced the release they had been chasing and he could lay back into the arms that reached around to circle his waist and hold him tightly.

      “I have no idea if you can ever understand just how good you make me feel, Mycroft.  And not just _this_ , though this is pretty fucking amazing, I have to say.  I can’t even tell you because I don’t have the right words, but I do want you to know that this is exactly what I’ve always wanted.”

Mycroft felt the trail of kisses across his shoulders and knew he also lacked the proper words to express how he felt.  Everything seemed either too clichéd or too sentimental… but words were not necessary.  He could feel his Gregory’s emotions and, somehow, was convinced that Gregory could discern his.  Words were absolutely _not_ necessary, though one day… one day he would like to make clear and unmistakable just who the PC was to him.  In his mind, an image began to form, transparent and nebulous, but readying itself for a suitable canvas…

      “And such is the case for me, as well, my dear.  This is a utopia that I believed impossible to find.”

A small motion and Mycroft was turned to face the man still holding his body as if he had no plans to ever let go.

      “But here I am and I am supremely grateful.”

Another prolonged and tender kiss nearly depleted the hot water and both men rushed to actually clean themselves before the shower turned cold.

      “Ok, that was… yeah, I’m starting my day that way again sometime soon.  If that’s ok with you, that is.”

      “I shall be most happy to comply.  Now, I believe we have a repast awaiting us?”

      “Leftover Chinese makes great breakfast.  Not sure which is best, leftover Chinese or cold pizza, but both are conqueror’s food.”

      “Then by all means, let us partake.  I do feel very eager to conquer to the tribulations of my day.”

      “And I’m very eager to make sure people have as few tribulations to conquer as possible.  Starting with you.”

      “I feel very protected.”

      “Good.  Means I’m doing my job right.  And you’ll let me know if I don’t, yes?”

      “I will immediately shriek with terror.”

      “Long as that sounds different that your shriek of sex, I think we have a plan.”

      “Gregory, do behave.”

      “What’s the fun in that?”

Honestly, Mycroft had no good answer to give.

__________

      “You’re taking it and that’s that.”

      “Gregory, this portion far exceeds…”

      “And I ate a lot more than you did this morning, so it evens out.”

The great leftover fight was in its fifth minute and neither side showed any signs of backing down.

      “And you will have a far more physically-challenging day than will I, so you will require a greater measure of food to properly fuel yourself.”

      “All I’ll likely do is do paperwork and stroll about a bit.  You’ve got to be out there waving down the customers, working on your paintings, trudging around with all your supplies… just take the extra carton.”

      “If you were not already in danger of being tardy for work, I would enumerate each flaw in your line of reasoning.”

      “Go ahead and enumerate.  It’ll still end with you leaving with what I give you.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Mycroft… look, I didn’t want to go here, but how much of that is going straight to your brother?”

That brought Mycroft up short and he suddenly felt very exposed and defensive.

      “Why is that at all relevant?”

      “Because he’s not a strand of hair like you are.  So, answer me.  How much of what you’ll bring home is going to go to feed Sherlock and not you?”

Mycroft adored Lestrade’s keen mind except, apparently, when he saw more than Mycroft wanted him to.  Now he wished the man sitting across the table was slightly more on the dimwitted side.

      “If Sherlock chooses to…”

      “He won’t choose to, you’ll give it to him and tell him to eat.  Don’t lie to me, Mycroft.”

Lestrade reached over and took Mycroft’s hand, mingling his and Mycroft’s fingers.

      “I’m not chiding you, please don’t think I am.  I know how you feel towards your brother and it’s good that you take care of him like that, but you’ve got to take care of yourself, too.  And since I know you’re going to give up a lot of this, I just want to be sure there’s something left for _you_ to eat.  Is that so wrong?”

It should be.  It was not anyone’s concern but his own how he conducted business in his own home, but coming from the one holding his hand… it didn’t feel wrong.  And Mycroft could not deny for a moment that his intention _had_ been to use the food he took home to provide his brother with a filling meal to start his long day of studies.  It should bristle that his intentions were so clearly predicted and countered, but he could not find any real anger welling inside of him.  Instead, he only felt a small sense of resignation at being defeated by his worthy opponent.  And a _large_ sense of comfort that someone, at long last, saw him as worthy of showing concern.

      “No, it is not.  Sherlock is and will always be a source of worry for me, but that is the lot of any elder sibling.”

      “I get it, I really do and I won’t ever stand in the way of that, but I _will_ try to make sure you don’t get neglected in the process.  So you’re getting that nice yummy chicken and if we have to fight for it, I warn you, I know a lot of tricks.”

If their relationship was to continue, Mycroft knew he had to find some way to immunize himself to Lestrade’s brilliant smile.  He had always thought the phrase ‘weak in the knees’ to be hyperbole, but was finding that was simply not the case.

      “I wager you do, Gregory and I look very forward to experiencing each one.”

      “Oh, don’t you worry about that.  I plan on a happy system of ‘I’ll show you, now you show me’ that both of us are going to enjoy.”

      “Ah, and since this assignation has been a fine example of ‘you show me,’ I presume I have the honor of showing _you_ when next we meet?”

And now it was Lestrade’s turn to wonder how he’d ever won even a single argument, what with Mycroft’s extremely wicked smile of sultriness.

      “The honor is yours.  And mine.  And part of me is already wanting to be honored so it is definitely time to get out of here, before I’m phoning in sick and not letting you out of the door until tomorrow.”

      “That would solve our disagreement on the provisions quite handily.”

      “Out, you evil thing!”

      “Oh very well… but we shall meet again soon, correct?”

      “Soon as I can.  I’ve got to check my assignments and who the fuck knows how the good citizens of London are going to behave, but… you know I’ll see you the next moment it’s possible.”

And Mycroft did know.  There was no further doubt in his mind about that one particular fact.

      “Then we say ‘till we meet again’ and part ways.”

      “After I see you safely home.”

      “Good heavens, Gregory.  I am perfectly capable…”

      “Which will give us a little bit more kissing time.”

      “Oh… again I am defeated by a well-crafted and highly-pertinent argument.”

      “What can I say?  It’s a talent.”

__________

Mycroft had to admit that a bit more kissing time was a very appropriate way to end their night together and when he was finally left alone at his door, it was with an incongruously light _and_ heavy heart.  How long it had been since he had enjoyed such a wonderful time?  Far too long… too long, actually, to begin to remember…  And, not even Sherlock’s surly presence was enough to dampen his spirits when he entered his flat.

      “I had wondered if you had been abducted, however, the lack of disruption in the flat indicated instead you were with the policeman.  I see he has yet to call you to question for your sins.”

      “And hello to you, brother dear.  You are quite correct, actually… I did spend the past hours with Gregory.  If you care, we had a very agreeable time together.”

      “Oh, and how much did that cost him?”

      “The price of the meal we shared and the suffering of my presence.  Oh, and the extra hot water for the shower.  That we also shared.”

It was petty to feel satisfied at Sherlock’s disgusted scowl, but an older brother had to occasionally take some pleasure at his charge’s expense.

      “It sounds absolutely appalling, which is to be expected when you are involved.”

      “A gallery walk, a hearty meal, a companionable conversation and a very satisfactory night’s sleep.  I find nothing in that list that could be described as appalling.  And here, a souvenir of your brother’s romantic tryst.”

Mycroft deposited the bag with the leftover food onto the small table, hesitating only a moment before removing two of the cartons to place in the tiny refrigerator that sat near the bed.

      “Have this for breakfast.  There is perhaps enough to bring with you today, but if not, I shall prepare something.”

      “I do not need your mothering.”

Said as Sherlock dropped into the chair after retrieving a fork.

      “Of course not, so do view it, instead, as a little gift.  Shall you be late tonight, do you think?”

      “Why, do you again need someone to safeguard our belongings while you dally with your _friend_?”

      “Pity the person who absconds with our possessions, Sherlock, for they must truly suffer in this world to consider our things worth stealing.  And no, I do not believe I shall see Gregory tonight.  Yesterday he had free, but that is not the case today and he toils long hours for our betterment.”

      “Hangs about eating the stray pastries he confiscates from shopkeepers, you mean.”

      “Ah, the quaint land of make-believe in which you live.  It must be a very relaxing place.”

      “Do you actually consider yourself amusing or do you at least possess the metacognitive awareness to realize that you are boring as this paper carton?”

      “That particular paper carton was quite tasty if memory serves.  Again, I ask, if you shall have a late evening?  If so, then I shall make plans to paint.  I know how you despise sharing the flat with me when I indulge myself in that manner.”

      “Then feel free to waste your time with your paints and pencils.  I am anticipating a long night with a fresh corpse.”

      “Oh, you have embarked on a romantic tryst of your own.  How sweet.”

      “Your idiocy astounds me.”

      “I am glad then to be astounding.”

      “Be silent and let me eat in peace.”

      “Of course, our home _is_ the more restful in silence.”

__________

Three seemed to be the magic number and now it was Lestrade’s least favorite number in the world.  Again, it was three days since he could find time to go and see Mycroft.  He’d been smart not to call in sick that morning with his lover since it seemed like every other person on the job had the same idea.  For three days running.  Something nasty was going around and those with heartier constitutions had to make up for those with weaker immune systems.

But each of those three days he’d thought of Mycroft.  Wondered what he was doing, wondered _how_ he was doing… daydreamed about the time they’d spent together and fantasized about what their next evening would be like.  No jumping straight into bed, though.  Mycroft was the best thing going and he was going to treat him as he deserved to be treated.  He’d done it right this last time and would do it right again.  Maybe a long walk or a relaxing evening in watching whatever the BBC decided to offer up.  He couldn’t wine and dine Mycroft like he’d want, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t show the man a nice time.

Lestrade just wished those nice times didn’t have to come so few and far between.  As it was, this was just going to be a quick stop-by Mycroft’s flat to see if he was still awake and say hello if he was.  Maybe chat a bit and, if Mycroft was alone, catch a few hours of sleep before he had to be back on the streets.  Regardless, if he was lucky, he’d get _some_ contact with his artist and that would make the wait until the next real time together more bearable.  And make going to bed alone again, something less than totally depressing.

When he got to the door of Mycroft’s building, Lestrade realized that he didn’t have a key and knocked himself on the head for being so stupid.  Luckily, the small window of Mycroft’s flat was accessible and since there was light in it, Lestrade didn’t feel bad about tossing a series of pebbles against it until a familiar face looked out to investigate the ruckus.  But it wasn’t a face that pleased Lestrade in the least because in no world should his artist look that distressed.  Lestrade pointed at the main door and his anxiety skyrocketed when it looked for a moment that Mycroft would refuse, but, after the hesitation, the face disappeared from the window and Lestrade heard, after a minute, the sound of the main door being unlocked.

      “Mycroft, what the hell is wrong?”

      “Nothing to spend your worry upon, Gregory.  It is simply not a good time…”

      “Maybe not, but look at you.  Mycroft, please tell me what’s going on.  You look like hell!”

      “Truly, it is nothing.  I am simply not able to accept company at this moment.”

A thick, queasy coil began to unfurl in Lestrade’s belly and he hated the words that forced their way out of his mouth.

      “Is there… Mycroft are you _with_ someone right now?”

That coil turned solid and sat in Lestrade’s gut like a heavy weight when he saw the look of pure horror race across Mycroft’s face.

      “No!  You must believe me, Gregory.  That is not the issue.  Please, please believe me for this.”

And Lestrade did.  There was nothing but complete candor in Mycroft’s eyes and the young man felt more than a little ashamed that he had even considered the thought.

      “I do.  I do, Mycroft… I promise you I do.  But something _is_ wrong and you need to tell me.”

      “There is nothing to be done…”

      “That’s for me to judge, now come on.  Let me see.  Now.”

Lestrade hated the tone of his voice, especially after his insulting accusation, but his worry hadn’t lessened one bit and if Mycroft didn’t voluntarily let him into the flat, he’d not give him any choice.

      “Very well… but please… do not judge.”

Mycroft turned and Lestrade followed him down the stairs and into the small flat, where the source of Mycroft’s distress was shivering on the tiny bed.

      “Sick or strung out?”

Mycroft heaved a large sigh and Lestrade had his answer.

      “The latter, I’m afraid.  You must understand…”

      “Don’t make excuses for him, Mycroft.”

Lestrade looked at the insentient figure sullying his lover’s bed and wanted to walk over and give him a sharp rap on the head for being such a fool.

      “Not excuses, Gregory… merely a framework for understanding.  He is not often like this… not as disabled as this.  It is a rare occasion and only… you know not his mind.  His mind is a truly terrifying place.  Staggeringly brilliant, fantastically creative…”

      “Yeah, and so’s yours.  Don’t see you…”

Lestrade did walk over this time and pulled up Sherlock’s shirtsleeve, hissing at what he saw.

      “Don’t see you shooting up, do I?”

      “I erected the necessary safety measures, practiced the needed discipline to hold the chaos in check.  Sherlock… Sherlock found it far more difficult to do so.”

      “Mycroft…”

      “He cannot endure stagnation.  When he has no avenue into which to channel his attention, his mind begins to turn on itself, slowly driving him towards madness.”

      “Then he should fucking find something to do!  This isn’t the way to handle being bored!”

Mycroft nodded and nothing in the world could stop Lestrade reaching out to stroke the artist’s pale cheek.  Mycroft took that hand and led Lestrade to the table, motioning him to take a seat.

      “He plays the violin.  You would not assume that about him, but his talent is such that he could take a seat in any orchestra in the world.”

No, Lestrade would _not_ assume that about the abrasive little twit, but it wasn’t impossible to believe.  Mycroft’s artistic talent was awe-inspiring, so his brother _could_ have talents in other areas…

      “Then maybe he should be doing that on the side.  Earn a little extra cash to keep you two going _and_ keep his brain from short-circuiting.”

      “In this, he could never function as part of a symbiotic whole such as an musical group.  And he has no desire to use his music to bring joy to anyone but himself, but he _does_ take great joy from it.  It soothes him, calms him… allows his mind to ride a quiet road for a time and focus on a single, pleasurable task.  It is the most satisfying and least harmful method he has ever found for holding his demons at bay… my brother is no stranger to intoxicants, however, it has grown worse of late.  And again, I place the blame squarely on myself.”

      “No.  No, Mycroft… not in a million years.  You are not responsible for your brother polluting himself…”

      “Look around, Gregory.  What is that you cannot find?”

Lestrade wondered if it was Mycroft that needed the thump on the head but did as he was told.

      “I don’t know… how _could_ I know?”

      “Once again and I am certain something will come to you.”

One more time, Lestrade surveyed the flat and now, something did pop into his head.

      “A violin.”

      “Very good.  Sherlock had a fine instrument, actually, it was a magnificent instrument.”

      “Was…”

      “It now lives a very lonely and unappreciated life in a pawnbroker’s hands.  I sold everything else I possibly could… did, well, I shall not trouble you with details of what I did to hold our lives together… there were fees owed that Sherlock’s scholarship did not cover, the rent, bills… we suffered a exhaustingly-harsh period and I made the only choice I could.  He hates me for it and I cannot blame him in the slightest.  That I could purchase nothing for my own pursuits for months was no balm.  That I put aside money to retrieve his violin is no comfort.  He is unmoored when these black periods consume him and without even that anchor, he has turned to another form of support.  I asked that you do not judge him, Gregory, and I still ask that favor, if you can find it within you to grant it.”

Stupid kid.  He could do a thousand other things besides turn to drugs, but… he couldn’t actually bring himself to judge him harshly.  Lestrade sat a moment and thought about what it must be like to have a brain like Mycroft’s, something so brilliant and active.  It must be tiring, for one.  Always thinking, always craving something to work on… so long as he found a way to keep that intellect channeled then, good day for all.  But if not… and Sherlock was a volatile, impulsive lad to begin with.  If he had any of Mycroft’s smarts and talent, but lacked Mycroft’s control and discipline… Ok, he wouldn’t march the idiot down and toss him in a cell, but he also wasn’t going to let Mycroft sit here alone with his ridiculous guilt.

      “This isn’t your fault, Mycroft.  I’ve said it before and I know you pooh-poohed me, but he _could_ do something to put a few pennies in the bank so you could have kept his violin.  And there’s still no reason that it was drugs he turned to for help.  No reason whatsoever.  That was a stupid decision and he made that himself.  I am not going let you shoulder the blame for this.  I simply am not.  But… I can see what you’re saying and I won’t judge… at least not much.  And I _will_ have a chat with him about the view of the law on the subject of purchasing and using illegal substances.  Now, which pawnbroker did you use?”

      “I… Peavey and Sons.  No… Gregory, you will not purchase back Sherlock’s violin.  I absolutely forbid it.”

That _had_ been Lestrade’s initial plan, but it was a minefield he was suddenly highly reluctant to navigate.  That would look very… controlling, condescending… something like that.  Even though every fiber of his body screamed for him to do whatever it took to take some of this burden off of his artist, if he was an arse about it, he’d lose the man and that was not something he could bear to think about.

      “I won’t.  But, I _will_ stop by and make sure that they have no intention of letting anyone walk out of the shop with that violin under their arm.  There’s a limit to how long they’ll keep it if you don’t pay and I’m guessing it’s going to take you awhile to save up to get it back.”

The way Mycroft’s face lit up told Lestrade he’d done the right thing.  And there was a slight relaxation in his lover’s posture that said he’d lost some worry, probably both about being ignored in his wishes and losing forever his brother’s precious instrument.

      “Thank you, Gregory.  That is most kind.”

      “Anything for you, you know that.  So, got anything to do?  Something to pass the time?”

      “You… you are intending to remain?”

Lestrade tossed off his outerwear and laid his jacket carefully over the back of his chair.  He’d at least try to keep his uniform in decent shape if he was going to stay awhile.

      “Unless you have an objection, I thought I’d keep you company.  Can’t be easy being here alone with him putting on his little show.”

And there was the remainder of Mycroft’s tension bleeding away.  Oh yes, he would be remaining and he would be having a little talk with Sherlock as soon as he was able.  Maybe the lad didn’t care that he was hurting himself, but Lestrade would do his best to make him care that he was hurting his brother.

      “It is not and I am very grateful for the companionship.  May I offer you…”

Mycroft’s mental eye inventoried his cupboards and found nothing but tea.

      “…. a cup of tea?”

      “Sounds good.  Some tea, a nice chat… got any cards?”

      “Actually, I believe I do.  There were a few items left behind by the last tenant and I think a pack of cards was among them.”

      “Then we’ve got tea, a nice chat and some entertainment.  Sounds like a good date to me!”

It was all Mycroft could do not to stare open-mouthed at the person sitting across from him.  Would Gregory ever cease to surprise him?

      “And to me, as well.  Though I do warn you, I am highly skilled in games of statistics and skill.”

      “Oh, you’ve never met anyone in my family.  We play cutthroat cards when there’s a get-together.  Bloodshed and people being disowned all over the place.”

      “Then this shall be a very exciting competition.”

      “Too bad Sherlock’s here or we’d play the strip version of whatever it is you want to play.”

      “Oh… and is that also part of the Lestrade family ritual?”

      “Nah, all stabs and punches have to go through clothes.  Well, except for my great-aunt.  She’s a bit of a free spirit.  _And_ a bit of a drinker.”

      “How delightful.  I am sure you have a wealth of stories.”

      “Tons.  There was this one time…”

And Mycroft set about brewing the tea and finding the rather ragged deck of cards.  Even with Sherlock lost in whatever world his mind went to when he was especially consumed by chemicals, Gregory was absolutely correct.  This would be a… another… good date.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to everyone for their support for this tale... it really is something I greatly appreciate...

Lestrade was really not happy to leave Mycroft alone, but he had no choice since crime waited for no one, especially someone wearing yesterday’s clothes.  It had, though, been a good night.  A very good night, actually.  Sherlock drifted off into a hard sleep after an hour or so and the rest of the time was spent indulging in good conversation, a _very_ cutthroat game of cards and some simple moments of physical contact that went no further than holding the other’s hand for a second after playing a card.  In fact, it wasn’t until he was leaving to get back to work that they even shared a kiss.  But it was a _extremely_ good kiss…

      “Thank you, Gregory.  This has been a wonderful experience, circumstances notwithstanding.  These times are always trying; however, your presence was greatly comforting.”

      “Glad I could help.  And you were being honest… idiot doesn’t get himself that messed up too often, right?”

      “No… though the frequency has been rising as he continues to seek a place for himself in this world and fails.”

As much as Lestrade hated to admit it, that was something he understood.  He’d had more than one mate go down a very bad road because they could never find their niche… alcohol, drugs and crime were very attractive for those who weren’t able, for whatever reason, to build a successful life for themselves.  It certainly wasn’t uncommon, but the little bastard didn’t have to be such a complete prick to his brother because of it.

      “Well, I plan on making him very aware how the law and people who enforce it frown on his behavior.  And why I think he’s just an all-around arse, as well.”

      “You will not be offended if I opt not to be present for that conversation?  Owing to my extremely tender sensibilities, I would rather not witness the carnage that will ensue.”

      “It’s a deal.  Don’t want you getting a case of the vapors or something.  Look, I gotta go, but I’ll stop by again as soon as I can.  Maybe we can get out and do something fun.  Have ourselves a night on the town, even if it’s just some window shopping and a quick pint.”

      “That sounds marvelous, Gregory.  I am already very much looking forward to it.”

      “Me too.  I’ll see you soon.”

Lestrade took one more kiss from his artist then started to walk in the direction of the nearest shop that sold coffee that could strip paint off of walls.  For his part, Mycroft returned to the small flat and was only slightly surprised that his brother was awake.  One shining eye fixed on him when he walked through the door and followed him as he continued walking on towards the kettle to start his brother a cup of tea.

      “He is gone?”

      “Ah, so you _were_ aware that Gregory was present.  I was not certain you maintained that degree of cognisance of your surroundings during your little episodes. Regardless, it was very kind of Gregory to keep me company during my vigil.”

      “And gloat at my infirmity.”

      “Infirmity is a word better used for a condition that is not brought about by one’s own poor choices.  A matter that I believe Gregory wishes to discuss with you at some length.”

      “Does he now think himself my father?”

      “I think he would run in terror from the insinuation, however, he is justifiably distressed at your behavior and, I am certain, the reasons behind it.”

      “I find that doubtful.  It is more likely he is affecting a façade to further secure access to your body.”

      “Gregory has unfettered access to all that I am and I delight in giving it.  His displeasure towards you for this incident is, instead, rooted in the fundamental truth that he is a kind and decent person.  You should develop a greater faith in his humanity.”

Sherlock looked at his brother with a mixture of confusion and curiosity in his eyes.

      “It was not so long ago that your belief in the kindness and decency of humanity was supremely lacking, Mycroft.”

      “It was, perhaps, presumptuous of me to extrapolate on the character of the whole based on the qualities of the few.  An error in reasoning that I am happy to concede.”

      “One of a countless number, so I shall not assign too heavy a significance to it.”

      “Whatever gives you joy, dear brother.  Now, do you feel you are able to eat?”

      “Ugh…”

      “I shall interpret that to mean a bit of toast may accompany your tea.  What time is your first lecture?”

      “I am not attending today.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “I have permission to, instead, spend my time in the laboratory as a project of some importance is at a critical juncture.”

      “Ah, and you have ensured you are at your observational best by brutalizing yourself with poison.  Well done… very well done.”

      “I suffer no lasting impairment.”

      “And as you tear apart the fabric of your mind, you further disable yourself from properly assessing your condition.”

His brother’s rude noise made Mycroft smile, but the lack of verbal response made him smile wider.  Sherlock was, at least, reflecting on his comment and though it would change nothing in his brother’s behavior at this point, it was one more piece of information that, added with others, could, someday, make a difference.

      “Have a shower, Sherlock.  The tea shall be ready when you are finished.”

      “I presume you will spend your day begging on your street corner as usual.”

      “I have polished my tin cup especially for occasion.”

      “In that case, I need you to visit the library afterwards and collect a series of books I require for my research.”

      “I had no idea you had purchased my slave contract.  How fortuitous that you are rarely home to crack the proverbial whip.”

      “Ridiculous, as always.  However, in exchange, I will replenish our survival supplies.”

      “You shall do the shopping?  I do not remember it being my birthday…”

      “Do not attempt humor, Mycroft, it contaminates the air with a nauseating gas reminiscent of those emitted by a decaying corpse.”

      “The very reason I do not earn a living on the stage.  However, I find your bargain an agreeable and refreshing one.  Thank you, Sherlock.”

Mycroft watched his brother drag himself off of the bed and lurch towards the shower.  While the kettle boiled, the elder Holmes stripped the bed, replacing the linens and wondering not for the first time whether they could manage with the tiny bit of floorspace remaining from placing a second bed in their flat.  But, that bit of fantasy did not compare to the idea that his brother would actually stoop to obtain provisions.  Dearest Gregory demonstrates again the depth of his character and affection, Sherlock actually offers to be helpful and the day, so far, appeared to be very pleasant, weather-wise.  Perhaps his luck would extend towards his humble business…

__________

Mycroft decided that wishing for things was a double-edged sword.  He had wished for a busy day and he was certainly not disappointed.  It was apparently a day for lovers and he had a string of couples wanting mementoes of their time together, with a few singles desiring various types of drawings for no reason other than they were enjoying a day of perfect weather and the happy companionship of a city of strangers sharing it with them.  He scarcely had a moment to focus on anything else and realized that he missed it greatly.  Missed simply having time to work on his own pieces and to wander inside his own mind, replaying memories as if they were parts of a favorite film.  Perhaps Sherlock was correct.  Perhaps he _was_ lazy, an ambitionless layabout.  No… that was not entirely correct.  If he could, he would spend every possible hour working on his art.  He would toil morning and night, day after day, year after year… no, he was not lazy.  He simply was not able to devote his life to the one thing at which he would give his everything for the rest of his life.

And that was something his Gregory understood.  Why, Mycroft had no idea, but his Gregory had a clear understanding of his nature and his passions.  And though he was surrounded and suffused by his art, the valiant policeman moved within that universe as easily as a fish through water.  He could slide into the process seamlessly and it was akin to adding a candle to the sun, a small steady flame that stood apart, yet supported the greater fire.  And when the sun set, the candle still burned, warm and inviting.

It was with an unusually full wallet that Mycroft dropped off his materials and made his way to the library to obtain Sherlock’s list of books.  How wonderful that some things in life were still free… and offered a convivial atmosphere on days when the weather was harsh and he simply desired to read a book in the warmth and not feel, for a few hours, so alone in the world.  It took little time to find the books on Sherlock’s list and he shared a word or two with the library staff, with whom he had developed at least a ‘share the pleasantries’ relationship.  He was almost out the door when a tiny cough caught his attention and looking in the direction of the noise, Mycroft felt his buoyant mood begin to sink as he saw who had made the sound.  Honestly he could not have said the man’s name for he was not sure he ever knew it; their acquaintance had not been one that required any measure of… acquaintance.  The man lifted the corner of his mouth in a questioning grin and Mycroft gave his head a slight shake, which, luckily, only earned him a small shrug of the shoulders as the man continued on his way.

It happened. Rarely, but it _did_ happen.  Once in a very great while he crossed paths with someone with whom he had done _business_ and it was only because of good English manners that no untoward remark was made.  It was a hard truth he had been forced to accept… what he did he would always carry with him.  If he ever began to think otherwise, from somewhere would come the reminder.  He would be, as he was today, enjoying a peaceful time in his life and there would rise an incident to draw his mind away from the peace and back to the war.  It was but one more price he paid for the failures in his life; however it was not a crippling price.  It would surely not kill him and there really was no manner in which he could be brought any lower in his circumstances.  He could not, though, deny the ache of that price and pray that it never be one he paid when his Gregory was nearby to witness.

__________

Sherlock was regretting fiercely his offer to do the shopping because… this was Mycroft’s job.  Mycroft sat on his flat arse all day dabbling with his crayons while he worked and slaved in the name of science.  His research was _important_.  He would make a difference in this world, not that anyone on this accursed planet deserved it.  Small-minded, weak-willed dolts… especially everyone with whom he was force to associate with in order to obtain his degree.  Why couldn’t they simply stay out of his way and let him work undisturbed free from their tiresome lectures and useless morsels of so-called advice.

      “I was hoping to run into you.”

And now the king of small-minded dolts appears to further burden his day.  How lovely to be strolling the streets of London alongside a costumed buffoon who was a single step from adding the village-idiot hat to his current collection of crowns.

      “What do you want, PC Lestrade?  Although I am quite certain I would be far more skilled at your job than are you, I am not in the mood to provide you with any helpful hints.”

      “Yeah, you’re funny.  Now that we’ve got that settled, why don’t you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you?”

      “Mycroft did not indicate you had an interest in philosophy.  Interesting.  Shall we engage in a discussion on the nature of existence or simply the elements in which you feel I am found wanting?”

      “Is it that you _can’t_ talk to other people or you just don’t want to?”

Sherlock cut a pair of eyes at the police officer and Lestrade simply stared back patiently.

      “I would say it depended on the person.  Since there is no person I am incapable of speaking to, then we are left with the question of their worthiness for my conversation.”

      “Wow.  Your brother’s got the air of breeding of the high-class and the confidence to back it.  You’ve just got the nasty arrogance some of you posh types have and it’s really pitiful coming from someone I spent a couple of hours watching do everything disgraceful but piss himself.”

      “I have no idea what Mycroft sees in you, but it is obviously not language skills or civility.”

      “There’s you being funny again.  And I’ll turn your argument around and say that I’m very civil to those who are worth it.  Which I think you _could_ be if you weren’t such a complete bastard.  Why in the hell are you filling your body with that crap?  Don’t you and Mycroft have enough problems without you adding to them?  And ripping yourself up in the process?”

      “I cannot see how this is any concern of yours.”

      “Mycroft’s my concern, so if it affects him, it affects me.”

      “How cloying of you.  Or is clinging a better term.”

      “Pick one, but if you want me to say I care about Mycroft, then I’ll say it.  No problem there.  I know what you think about him and I say you’re an idiot.  He’s a good man doing what he has to and I won’t fault him for that.  And before you start calling me a liar, I’ll freely admit that I am not happy about what that means.  Not happy about it at all.  But I’m not going to stand around being evil to him because of it.”

      “And when this becomes an issue?  When you prepare for one of your little ‘evenings’ and find him covered in the marks of someone else’s attention?”

Now it was Lestrade’s turn to glare, but he couldn’t say Sherlock didn’t have a valid point.

      “Honestly?  I don’t know.  Probably yell my head off, say things I’ll hate myself for later, tell him I don’t want to see him again… any combination of that.  I’ve got my own pride and I won’t deny that.  But, you know what?  Then I’ll be coming back and saying I’m sorry and hoping he doesn’t hate me so much he spits in my face.  Your brother doesn’t do what he does for fun.  He’s not out to get his itches scratched.  You _know_ that and so do I.  It’s hard to take and, yeah, I’ve heard your opinion about what else he should do, and I won’t say you’re wrong, but I understand his side of things, also.  Maybe that’s the difference between the two of us… I understand or, at least, I try to.  I think you could if you wanted; you just don’t.”

Sherlock wasn’t really prepared for anything beyond ridiculous pleadings of devotion, so the truthful and unromantic speech took him aback.

      “At least you are not blind to his failings.”

      “Failings… do not go down that road with me or I’ll break my promise to myself about really being a prick to you.  And this isn’t what I tracked you down for anyway.  I just wanted to tell you straight out that this drugs thing isn’t right.  Mycroft tells me you’re some kind of genius and an amazing musician to boot.  No!  Close your mouth… he also told me about your violin and I won’t say you don’t have a right to be furious about that, but I stopped by the pawnbroker and he’s going to hold that as long as it takes for your brother to get the money together to pay off the loan.  You’re not going to lose it, so you can stop worrying about that.  But you keep pouring that filth into you and who knows if you’ll even be in good enough shape to play it again?  Or do all that stuff at Uni…  This uniform says I have to tell you that I won’t be able to turn a blind eye to that crap.  The person inside it says that I don’t want to.  Don’t throw your life away, lad.  It’s killing Mycroft as surely as it’s killing you and I really don’t want to see either of you suffer any more than you already do.”

      “You place great faith in Mycroft, yet you do not show me the same faith that I can successfully manage my temptations.”

      “Because I’ve heard that story from more junkies than I can count.  Not that you’re all the way there, yet, but I don’t want you to end up a part of that sad group.  That’s not what you were meant for so just… just think about what I said, ok?  Even if you wind up giving me a right ol’ fuck off, just give it some thought.  If it ever comes to it and I really hope it doesn’t, I _will_ haul you in for possession.”

      “Mycroft will not be pleased.”

      “You’re right, he won’t.  But it’s my duty and Mycroft being pleased or not doesn’t change that.”

And Sherlock was certain the PC was being honest.  Apparently, he would have to be more careful in the future about when and where he indulged.

      “I shall take you at your word.  Now, is there anything else about which you wish to bother me or may I be on my way?”

      “You heading home?”

      “I must purchase a few items, _legal_ items, and then, yes, that is my destination.”

      “Ok, then I’ll leave you to it.  My meal break’s about over and I have to actually do some police work for the wages they pay me.  Tell Mycroft I said hello, ok?”

      “Oh, you shall not be partaking tonight?”

      “No, but I do hope to partake again very soon.  Don’t worry, I’ll take him to my place so you don’t have to worry about walking in on something that’ll upset you.  Of course, you might just want to pull up a chair and jot down some notes for when _you_ actually have someone to partake with.”

      “Nothing about that except the removal of Mycroft from our flat is going to be kept in my memory.”

      “Oh well, your loss.  Look, we’re going to run into each other now and then, so let’s try and at least not go for each other’s throats when we do.  Deal?”

      “If it saves me the wasted time speaking with you, then I agree.”

      “Ok then… I’ll see you later, Sherlock.  Try to stay out of trouble.”

Sherlock’s farewell was given in a sign language that Lestrade happened to be fluent in, so his response was very native.  Well, he’d done what he said he do, given Sherlock a little talk and put him on alert that the uniform wasn’t just for show.  And it’d actually gone better than he’d expected.  Neither of them had bloody noses or were sitting in a holding cell and maybe, just maybe, a tiny piece of what he said got through Sherlock’s thick skull.  If not… well he’d keep trying until it did.

__________

      “Here.”

Sherlock dropped the bags of groceries on the table and himself onto the bed.

      “And I shall exchange them for the books you requested.  All titles were available so you should be well stocked with reading material.”

Mycroft began putting away the purchases and wondered about the expression on his brother’s face.  It wasn’t one of his usual few.

      “Your lover accosted me on the street tonight.”

Ah.  Of course a meeting with Gregory would set his brother on edge.  Especially if the meeting centered on Gregory’s intended topic of conversation.

      “Oh, was it enjoyable?”

      “He is nearly as irritating as you, but he does it in fancy dress, so there is an amusement factor that interactions with you lack.”

Mycroft’s mind drifted to the image of Gregory in full uniform and he allowed it to linger there for a moment as it was a very nice way to relax.

      “And did you speak on any topics of interest?”

      “You are well aware of what we discussed.  Do not be disingenuous.”

      “You are correct and I do apologize.  However, since you are in possession of all of your limbs and have no visible gaping wounds, I was not certain if Gregory had changed his mind about his intentions.”

      “As if anything he would say could impel me to any action, let alone violence.”

      “I would say if anyone could lift you to that height it _would_ be Gregory.  He has a talent for slicing through the veil of what we would use words to conceal and strike at the heart of the issue.  That can be a powerful weapon and disconcerting for the recipient.”

Sherlock would not dignify his brother’s foolish little speech with a response, but he had to acknowledge that the PC had little difficulty grasping the main thread of a topic in his teeth and ignoring attempts to make him release his prize.

      “Well, I shall not pry.  What was said is between the two of you and none of my business.  However, I do hope you realize the significance of his wanting to speak with you and, if only for that, reflect on his words with some seriousness.”

      “I shall give them every measure of consideration they deserve.  And he asked me to pass along his greetings.  Now that I have discharged that duty, I am free to avoid thinking, let along speaking, about him.  I would now appreciate some quiet as I shall be reading.  If you choose to prepare tea, I would not be averse to a cup.”

Mycroft chuckled and started the water for a cup of tea to begin their evening at home.  Yes, it had apparently been a moderately successful encounter.  Perhaps Sherlock and Gregory might eventually find some common ground and be more than restrained adversaries.  It would be beneficial if they did because he had no intention of having either of them leave his life for a very long time…


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft found he was watching the sky nearly as often as he was watching the passers-by.  The spate of good weather they had been enjoying was threatening to end and he had begun to pack away his lesser-used materials in preparation of having to break for home if the sky opened as it was promising.  Not that it would cause his pockets a great deal of upset… the people on the street had not possessed the joie de vivre of the past few days and the number of interested glances he had caught that could be stoked into a desire to sit were few.  But he could not find it in himself to complain.  If Mother Nature _did_ decide to let the rain pour, it would mean an afternoon that could be spent on his own art, something he had been enjoying of late.  Sherlock had been absent until the early hours the past few nights, immersed in his research, and the flat had been Mycroft’s to use as he pleased.  A bit of soothing music on the radio, his paints and brushes and long hours of uninterrupted time to concentrate on his work… a very agreeable atmosphere in which to relax and work.

The only upsetting aspect of the time had been the lack of contact with Gregory.  Though _lack_ was not truly the appropriate term because his dear police constable had taken great pains to at least stop and visit a few moments during these past two days while Mycroft camped on his little island and sold his talents for bread.  And, as Mycroft was jubilant to note, he had been asked out tomorrow for another evening of companionship.  Perhaps, though he was fearful to think ahead and incur the wrath of the goddess of good fortune, if he could enjoy the length of relationship he desired with Gregory, there would come a time where a few days of parted company no longer felt like a period of bereavement.

With a clap of thunder sounding in the distance, Mycroft decided that there was no reason to remain in his spot since even the few individuals he might entice into listening to his pitch would be highly wary of starting a sitting only to have it terminated by a storm.  A few minutes later, he had packed away his materials and another few minutes later he was sprinting through the start of the rain to make it into his building before everything he had was soaked through.  A quick change of clothes was step one, a cup of hot tea was step two, setting up his easel and supplies was step three and the sound of the rain supplied step four, the soundtrack to accompany Mycroft as he began painting.

Rather than work on a canvas he had started earlier in the day, he decided to start something new.  Something to celebrate the rain and what it was.  Mycroft had always possessed a very great fascination with the natural cycles of nature because they showed how highly divergent and unique events could be united, feeding and being fed and in an unending circle.  Plants drink the water in the soil and emit it from their leaves back into the air.  The sun energizes the particles of lakes and rivers, the ocean and the frozen wastes and sends them to the sky.  Animals drink it, sweat it, excrete it and the water finds its way into the clouds.  All to fall again as rain. The rain that fell on the streets could have been anywhere, lived a hundred thousand lives and go on to live a hundred thousand others.  Who could deny the beauty in that?

Mycroft knew he lost himself in his work and, so, had no idea how long he’d been painting when a very warm feeling crept into his bones that felt like that first ray of sunshine after the storm clouds began to break, though he could still hear the rain providing the score for his labor.  And his tea… it was warm again, though he was sure his cup had been nearly empty and cold.  But all of the warmth was welcome.  It made him remember the role of the sun and the heat in making the rain and powering the cycle and new elements of his composition began to rise in his mind, which then began to guide his hand.  And that new and delicious warmth stayed, keeping him limber and his fingers nimble and precise.  All the while, too, there was always tea…

Then it was complete.  Or as complete as a piece could ever be.  But Mycroft had captured his moment of inspiration and captured it well.  Some canvases simply failed to present the vision he wanted, but not this one.  This was the image of his heart and his mind’s eye and… oh, there was a sandwich with his tea.  That he had apparently been eating…

      “Looks like someone’s waking up.”

Mycroft whipped his head around and knew his jaw had dropped seeing his lover stretched out on the narrow bed, a book in his hands and his own cup of tea resting on the floor.

      “Gregory?  When…”

      “A little while ago.  Maybe a couple of hours.  I actually got off on time for once and thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

Now the warmth made sense.  Of course a chilled, rainy day would be warmed by his Gregory’s presence.

      “I apologize profusely for failing to note your arrival.  Why did you not take steps…”

      “And interrupt that!”

Lestrade swung his feet off the bed and took his place behind his artist, hands resting on his shoulders.

      “I would no more interrupt _that_ than I would chew through my tongue.  You are insanely… amazing when you paint.  And look what happened – it’s brilliant!   That painting could go right into any museum in the world and I got to watch it happen.  Not going to stop you working unless there’s a fire in room or you haven’t slept for a day or so.”

Mycroft leaned his head back to rest against Lestrade’s body and was rewarded by the hands moving from his shoulders to his chest as strong arms wrapped around him and held him tightly.  It was so perfect he wanted to start another canvas, this one inspired by the unimaginable sensation of being in the arms of someone who cared, both about him and his art.  Cared so much he would brew tea, make food and pass the time unremarked and in silence so that the work could be finished.

      “I am gladdened that you find this piece acceptable.”

      “Acceptable?  We need to work on your vocabulary.  That right there is spectacular.”

Lestrade placed a kiss on Mycroft’s temple and took up his plate and cup to refresh the contents of both.

      “Gregory, you do not have to wait on me.”

      “No, I don’t, but I want to.  You’ve been working hard and deserve a little attention.”

      “And you?  I am certain you have had a very busy day, far more so than I.”

      “Nah, just plodding through things as usual.  Now yesterday… that was crazy.”

      “And I will receive the details, I assume.”

      “If you want them.”

      “I very much do.  I greatly enjoy hearing your stories of adventure and excitement.”

      “Well, I don’t know about excitement, but…”

Mycroft took a deep breath and simply soaked in the experience for a moment.  A piece he truly felt made the statement he intended, his lover moving through the small flat as if it were _theirs_ , sharing details of each other’s day, along with the small bits of affection that meant as much to Mycroft as a full night of lovemaking… the intensity of the bliss was nearly overwhelming.  And from the brilliance of his Gregory’s smile, Mycroft knew he was not alone in the feeling.

      “Here you go, my world-class painter.  I thought we’d switch from tea to the wine I happened to find in my hide-the-wine-sack and since I found pasta in the sack too, how about we have a little of that?”

Before Mycroft could answer with his mouth, his stomach did it for him with a gurgle that set Lestrade laughing and tossing over a hunk of bread for Mycroft to use to bribe his body into keeping quiet until dinner was served.

      “I think I got my answer.  Why don’t you get some of that paint off of you and I’ll take care of this.”

Lestrade jumped across the small amount of floor between him and his lover and gave him a big kiss before jumping back to search for a pot to boil water, all of which made Mycroft laugh and wonder how the aerial acrobatics would translate into dance.  It had been ages since he had been dancing…

__________

One delightfully-full stomach later and with a few glasses of wine in his blood, Mycroft was again close to losing himself in the moment.  A meal with a wonderful man, conversation that flowed easily, Gregory’s eyes focused on him and when they strayed, it was to his painting, which still sat on the easel in the center of the room.

      “If I felt you had any brain cells left to lose, I would worry for them so thick is the stench of artistic desperation in here.”

      “Ah, Sherlock.  This is exactly what I was lacking in my day, your derision.”

Sherlock strolled into the flat and Mycroft laid a calming hand on Lestrade’s arm, which Lestrade would like to have said was unnecessary, but he really did want to smack the mouthy kid, despite their existing treaty.

      “How about you say something nice, Sherlock?  Maybe about that masterpiece staring you in the face.”

      “I ignore Mycroft’s so-called art as completely as I can, so…”

Mycroft and Lestrade shared a quizzical look and waited for Sherlock to finish his thought.

      “This is a new piece.”

      “One I began and completed during your absence.  I found myself quite inspired, today… and supported.  What do you think?”

This shared look was a fond one, because Sherlock had yet to toss out another insult and was actually studying Mycroft’s work.

      “This is different than your other works.”

      “Oh… may I ask how?”

Sherlock made a rude noise but continue to stare at the canvas.

      “If I ever knew even a word of your antique and pretentious jargon, I would still not deign to reply.  I shall simply say that this is the closest you have ever come to producing something that is not utterly humiliating for you.  It actually possesses some degree of vitality, unlike your normally lifeless and flaccid works.  Somewhere you might find a victim willing to hang that over their mantle.”

Mycroft truly had no idea how to respond to his brother’s uncharacteristically-approving words.  Whether it was a by-product of a particularly good day with his research or an honest opinion of the piece, the elder Holmes could honestly say he didn’t care.  It was simply pleasant, for a change, to hear his brother speak of his art in other than hateful and vitriolic terms.

      “Thank you for that, Sherlock.  It is a criticism I will take to heart.”

      “Have a seat and I’ll heat up the pasta we set aside for you.”

Lestrade hopped up and tipped Sherlock’s food into the pot in which he heated the sauce and began to get it warm, cutting bread and pouring Sherlock the last of the wine.  Kid does something decent, give him a reward.  Maybe some basic training techniques would work with him as well as they did for the canines on the force.

      “And your day, brother?  A success?”

      “It was as successful as it could be given that I must work alongside the nearly brain-dead.  However, progress _was_ made and I am hopeful that more definitive results will be had by week’s end.”

      “Tell me you at least attended _some_ of your lectures.”

      “I attended some of my lectures.”

      “Are you defining _some_ as more than one?”

      “Stultifying as always, Mycroft.  I do not believe in so narrowly constraining the meaning of a word.  It retards the full bloom of language.”

      “You go to class you lazy sod.  Do you know how many people your age would love to get their chance to do what you’re doing?  You got a scholarship to actually attend class, not play mad scientist.”

      “You police are boringly attached to rules and policies; it is no wonder you are universally disliked.  And any candidate willing to step up is welcome to take my place.  I proved my worth to the research staff my first day, therefore, they would likely offer me a position, especially since my attentions would no longer be divided between valuable work and pointless classes.”

      “I believe you told me that your little research team could not even fund your lunch, let alone provide you with a paying position, which would be necessary since you would lose out on possibilities for any other suitable position by forsaking your degree.”

      “I do not need money.  That is what you are for.”

Mycroft saw Lestrade preparing to lay out a scolding, but gave him a nod to hold back his tongue.  What the PC could not hear was the almost-invisible teasing tone in his brother’s voice, something Mycroft rarely heard anymore, so it was highly treasured.  Today was truly an interesting day.  Mycroft now had to wonder if Lestrade’s little chat with Sherlock had been more in depth than he knew.

      “Ah yes, the reason I was born, to provide you with a life of leisure.”

      “In that, if nothing else, our parents demonstrated due foresight.”

      “Well, Mycroft might be a soft touch, but I’ll have a truancy officer checking in on you if I have to.”

      “I believe my age range exceeds their scope of responsibilities, PC Lestrade.”

      “They’ll make an exception.  Now you eat every bit of that and no more talk of living off Mycroft’s largesse.”

      “That is an unexpectedly robust vocabulary word for you.”

      “Part of yesterday’s crossword.”

      “I am experiencing no surprise.”

      “Sherlock, eat Gregory’s nice food before it grows cold.”

      “I had not realized that I _had_ actually been transported back to an age range appropriate for a truancy officer.  In fact, I am now wondering if a mirror would show me an image of my five-year old self staring back.”

      “Bet he was a cute five-year old, wasn’t he, Mycroft?”

      “We were continually stopped while out on errands so that people could admire Sherlock and his lovely curls.”

      “It was my duty to provide the other children and their parents with an exemplar of childhood perfection.”

      “So little Mycroft and little Sherlock strolling about in matching outfits, with hats and the whole business.  I can see that, but I could really use a sketch to get the full picture.  You’ll take care of that won’t you, Mycroft?”

      “I believe, Gregory, that I can accommodate your wishes.  Of course, the tableaux might be spoiled by our characteristic pose of Sherlock kicking my shins while I wrap my hands around his throat.”

Mycroft was already enamored of Lestrade’s laugh, but it was all the more enjoyable when complemented by Sherlock’s own deep chuckle.

__________

While Sherlock had a shower, Lestrade took the opportunity to take a bit of affection from his artist.  More than a bit, actually, by the time he was done and that left him very anxious for more.

      “Want to come back to my flat tonight?  I actually… I got asked to switch duty shifts tomorrow, so I can’t do an evening out.  But, I was hoping that we could get a morning or something, instead.  And I can do the night after, no problem.  Hopefully.  I was having such a good time tonight, I forgot I was going to tell you.  Sorry about that.”

Mycroft couldn’t deny that it was a disappointment, but not a substantial one.  The exchange of one anticipated evening for an impromptu morning-after and then a bonus evening as lagniappe.  No, his disappointment was _not_ terribly substantial…

      “I do not see how I could refuse such a generous offer.  It is likely we shall see more rain in the morning, so forsaking my little island will be no issue.”

      “Great!  Is it… do you need to do something with your masterpiece before we go?”

      “I shall prop it here on the table.  Sherlock does know better than to compromise my art in any manner, but the poor boy should not have to trip over it on the way to relieve himself.”

A quick clearing of the table and Mycroft’s painting was positioned in its new home.  Then it was a quicker cleaning of the dishes before Mycroft was gathering his jacket and scarf.

      “No brolly, Mycroft?”

      “Unfortunately, no.  I lose them too easily and it doesn’t do to spend good money on items that I simply donate to lucky finders throughout London.”

      “Well, I’ll have to get you one you won’t lose.  Something really special you can’t bear to be parted from.”

      “Perhaps have the handle carved as a bust of yourself?  It would never leave my hand, in that case.”

      “I’ll start a savings plan.  Ready to go?”

      “One moment…”

Mycroft gave a small knock, then shouted over the shower to notify Sherlock that he was leaving.

      “Now, I am ready to depart.  Sherlock is much better behaved when he is duly informed of every detail that could, in any way, pertain to him.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.”

__________

Lestrade lay in bed, listening to Mycroft’s sleep-deepened breathing and wanted to let out an enormous whoop of joy.  This was the life.  They’d spent what could only be called a domestic evening and it was the best thing ever.  He could spend every evening that way and ask for nothing more.  A quiet time together, doing things they each liked, a nice meal that his Mycroft ate every bite of with a grin on his face and that same grin looking up at him from between his thighs as they moved to the second portion of their night.  This really, really was the life.  Someone warm and stunning in his bed and… it should be too soon to say he hoped that this would be where Mycroft would always want to be.  It should be too soon to say that he hoped this gorgeous man would call home wherever their bed happened to be.  It should be far too soon to think about words like forever and always, but none of that… not one bit _felt_ like it was too soon.  Well, he wouldn’t push Mycroft on the issue, not for any reason.  Not going to put him under any pressure.  The man’s life didn’t need any more pressure or stress; in fact, it was _his_ job to try and help with that.  And Lestrade took that job very seriously…

__________

      “Look at those beautiful eyes.  Now how about you close them and get another hour or so of sleep.”

      “Early mornings and I are very cordial, Gregory.  And I might ask the same?  Why are _you_ awake?  I would have thought you would wish to indulge in a late start to your free morning.”

      “Not when I can use the time to watch the sexiest man in the world sleep.  You really are a sexy sleeper – every time you roll or shift, it’s like some ballet move.”

      “Hmmm… bed ballet.  I believe that would make a very appropriate euphemism for our earlier activities.”

      “Mycroft Holmes is a very naughty man.”

With an extraordinarily naughty, wicked grin that shot straight to Lestrade’s groin.  And if he really, really didn’t need to use that part of his body for another purpose right now, he’d be jumping onto his bed partner’s body and teaching him a lesson about what happens to naughty, wicked men.

      “One must exercise one’s talents lest they grow stale.”

      “Well, that’s one you can exercise on me any time you’d like.  Now, quick piss for yours truly and we can get on with things.  Whatever things we want to get on with, that is…”

Lestrade rolled over Mycroft to get out of bed, stopping on the way to simply lay on the tall man and enjoy the sensation of warm skin  and warmer lips pressed against him.  Maybe the loo could wait after all…

      “Gregory, as much as I adore you, if you provide me with an unexpected shower, we shall have words.”

      “Fine, I’m going.”

      “That is exactly what I dread.”

Lestrade gave Mycroft’s shoulder a nip and flashed him a smile.  Smart, gorgeous, talented, poised and funny… if Mycroft’s parents were still alive, Lestrade knew he’d be buying them gigantic gifts for making this wonderful man every year on Mycroft’s birthday.

But that wonderful man wasn’t in bed when Lestrade finished up his morning business.  He was in the kitchen starting on what smelled like something very enjoyable and being an extremely tempting piece of flesh by strolling around wearing the tatty robe Lestrade kept hanging on the corner of the door to his small closet.

      “Ah, Gregory.  I hope you do not mind.”

      “Mind?  Watching you strut about like a runway model while making me breakfast?  I want a film of it so I can watch you on mornings when I’m here by myself throwing down a cup of my awful tea and eating burnt toast and runny eggs.”

      “You flatter me, but I shall not take steps to stop you.”

      “Good, because they wouldn’t work.  I’ll flatter you shamefully and you’ll just stand there and take it.  Or sit there.  Or lay there or whatever it is we’re doing when I’m making with my flattery.”

      “Commanding.  I like that.”

Lestrade settled himself behind his lover and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s narrow waist.

      “I like _you_.  And I want you to wear this whenever you come by so that when I put it on later, I’ll be able to smell you.  Wrapped up in your scent… now that’s something to keep me company when I can’t actually be with you in the flesh.”

Lestrade ran his hands along Mycroft’s sides as if he was trying to embed more of Mycroft’s personal aroma into the fabric and the artist further obliged him by wiggling around so that Lestrade had no choice but to give all parts a thorough rubbing.

      “How felicitous.  Just as we finish our primal scent-marking, the meal is prepared.  I shall take that as a sign from the gods that they are pleased with our behavior.

      “Lust god’s not included or we’d have gotten another few minutes.”

      “Nonsense.  He is well aware that my designs for you would take far longer than a few minutes.”

      “Oh.  Well, then thank you lust god.  And food god, this looks amazing.”

      “Let us hope the same can be said for the taste.”

      “Mycroft, if there’s any man in London with better taste than you, I’d be very surprised.”

      “There could be some merit to that.  After all, just look at my choice of partner.”

Partner.  Lestrade _very_ much liked the sound of that…

      “Can’t argue with your logic.  Let’s eat up, then.  I want to take my tasty man out and show him off to the rest of the city.”

      “I shall endeavor to be as succulent as possible.”

      “That could be dangerous.”

      “Then isn’t it lucky I am with a policeman.”

      “Luckiest thing in my life.”

__________

Lestrade and Mycroft took a long stroll, stopping at every eclectic little shop they could find and taking pleasure in simply looking at the various novelties, fashions, knick-knacks and gadgets they found.  Though it threatened, the rain never appeared and after a few hours, the clouds finally broke and the sun began to shine, making the humidity rise, but bringing out the people and Lestrade knew he had to let Mycroft go for the day.

      “Ready to get out there and be a wage slave?”

      “No, I would far prefer to continue on as we have been, however, I should likely take advantage of those wanting to celebrate the return of sun.  I have enjoyed myself greatly, however, as I do always.  And thank you for last night.  It is not something I ever expected, to be able to work and have another person so welcome at my side.  In fact, I have come to believe that the vitality, as Sherlock put it, in my painting was surely the result of your presence.  Thinking back, I realize that I _did_ know when you arrived, by the comforting warmth that permeated first myself and then my art.  And, for that, I offer you a second measure of thanks.  Perhaps I have found my elusive muse after all of these years.  Yes, I very much think that I have and that a very pleasing thought.”

Lestrade leaned in and gave Mycroft a soft kiss on the cheek.

      “You know how to make a man feel good about himself, don’t you?  And it’s me that should be thanking you.  How many people get to be witness to an artist like you at work?  Get that peek behind the curtain.  If I can, I’d like to do it again.  Get to watch you really work when there’s no one around to distract you.  Just like we did last night, it that’s ok.  Or, you could set up in my flat if Sherlock’s going to be home.  Just a thought and only if you like the idea, of course.”

Now it was Lestrade’s turn to get a kiss and this time Mycroft’s smile was purely happy and eager.

      “I would enjoy that very much.  Truly, it would be splendid.  Though you should be careful… I may slowly annex your flat as my studio.”

Lestrade would be making a stop today to get a second key made to pass along.  If Mycroft wanted a studio, he’d get it.  Having his artist safe and warm and fed and happy and creating… key and a spare robe.  For _him_ and only when Mycroft visited.  Lestrade had been very serious about wanting Mycroft to wear his whenever he could…

      “You go right ahead and do that.  I’d love the company and even if I’m not there, it’d be a nice space for you to use.  And then I’d get to see a lot more of your work, which I’m very much looking forward to.”

      “Then I shall give you a showing.  I store certain pieces in the attic and I shall happily take them down one day for you to view.”

      “I’d like that.  I really would.  Now, let’s get you back home so you can get your stuff and start making more nice things for people to see.  And we’re on for tomorrow, right?  I was thinking a film, or if we get an early enough start, maybe stop by another gallery or two.  Now that I’ve got a private tutor, might as well make use of him.”

      “I would be delighted.  And tomorrow will be very agreeable.  Shall we?”

      “Oh, we shall…”

__________

Lestrade was on the fence as to which shift was worse.  One day he’d have to make a chart between day and night listing the minor, annoying issues and the serious, nasty ones and see which came out on top.  Take this for instance.  Disturbance call for which there was no disturbance.  At least when you got there and there were idiots blasting music or a fight going on or something else loud and foolish you knew it’d be a quick and easy thing.  But now they had to go knocking on doors, trying to figure out what was going on and… wait a minute.  Lestrade nudged the officer next to him and nodded to the figure walking up to the front door of the building in question.  After awhile  on the job you developed an instinct that you learned to trust and that instinct said that this was something they wanted to see.  Stepping back into the shadows, Lestrade and his colleague watched the figure knock and when the door was answered, a bit of conversation ensued and… there.  That was a transaction if Lestrade had ever seen one.  Disturbance… some neighbor had probably called it in and not wanted to leave any clue as to who reported it.  No one wants to be on the bad side of people selling drugs, especially not in this area.

A quick discussion and Lestrade called his superiors who agreed to send additional officers.  A nice big building could mean a nice big drugs bust and extra hands were always helpful.  After a half-hour four more officers were on scene and the sergeant that stepped out of the car took charge and assigned duties just before they moved to investigate further.  Luckily, things began very smoothly… very routine.  Knock, hello we’ve received reports blah, blah, blah… can we take a look around… let me rephrase, we’re going to take a look around… oh good, he tried to run so move in lads…

Lestrade hated these sorts of places.  Dirty, why were they always dirty?  Decent building on the outside and filthy on the inside.  Plus they stank and half the people you found inside had no idea you were even there, which did make taking them in a lot easier, he had to admit.  Lestrade got paired up with another young PC as the sergeant called for transportation of the people they’d be taking in, and the two began surveying their assigned portion of the house.  First two rooms netted four very high and very placid individuals.  Lestrade and his partner checked their pockets, documenting the various bags and bottles they found, before handing them over to another PC who was assigned babysitting duty at the front of the house.  Another room yielded two more individuals, one a pregnant girl who couldn’t have been more than seventeen, which broke Lestrade’s heart, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. They walked through standard procedure again and moved to another room where Lestrade had his brain grind to a halt.

Sherlock.  Sherlock bloody Holmes.  At least the bastard had some awareness because his eyes went wide as saucers seeing that not only had the police arrived, but that Lestrade was there with them.  Suddenly a war of thoughts and emotions raged in Lestrade’s mind and he wanted to go over there and give the stupid boy a kick in the arse he’d feel for months.  How could he do this?  How could he be so completely idiotic?  And… Lestrade had thought that maybe he’d gotten through a little with their little talk.  Last night had been good… Sherlock had been, at least, pleasant and civil and Lestrade had really thought that maybe the lad was going to make an effort to try to get his life in order.  Well, he’d been wrong, hadn’t he?  You couldn’t get as far from trying as lying on a dirty sofa in a rathole of a house surrounded by… well, Lestrade was thinking by lowlife addicts, but that would actually imply Sherlock was better.  That he didn’t have tiny pinpricks of blood on his sleeve and that his eyes weren’t glassy.  God, this was going to kill Mycroft…

      “Want me to take this one, Greg?  You check out across the hall?”

He should.  He absolutely should, but… he couldn’t.  Not that any of these lads would rough up someone who didn’t fight back, but he couldn’t leave Sherlock to anyone else’s care.  Especially since the stupid prick _might_ decide to fight back and it would not go well for him if he did.

      “Nah, I’ll handle him.  He looks a bit feistier than the others and I’d hate for you to get your hair mussed if you have a tussle.”

      “Bastard.  But I do value my hair.”

      “Don’t I know it?  How much product you have in your locker?”

      “Hey!  My girlfriend buys me that.  If I don’t use it she’ll know and then where will I be?”

      “Celibate.”

      “Fucking right.  If you need me, scream.”

Lestrade waited until the other PC was out of the room before approaching Sherlock, who was glaring at him as best he could with eyes that weren’t quite focusing.

      “Well, I’m sure you’re delighted with this turn of events.”

Mouthy little twit.

      “Oh yeah, I’m thrilled to have to take you in and then tell your brother you’re under arrest.  This is going to kill him, Sherlock!  Do you have _any_ idea what this is going to do to him?  How guilty he’s going to feel?  How angry and hurt and…”

      “Mycroft’s feelings are not my concern.”

Sherlock was actually lucky Lestrade wasn’t alone on the scene, because the PC was not at all sure that the only thing holding him back from sending Sherlock to the hospital with a few broken bones was the presence of the other officers on the scene.

      “They should be.  They bloody well should be.  Alright, turn out your pockets.”

      “You cannot be serious.”

      “I am completely serious and if you don’t comply, I’ll be happy to make you.”

      “I doubt that’s legal.”

      “I don’t really care.  Do it.”

For the first time, Lestrade saw something in Sherlock’s eyes that wasn’t petulant arrogance.  It almost looked like worry and when the boy began to draw out the contents of his pockets Lestrade understood why.

      “For fuck’s sake!  How much… no.  Do not tell me you were going to sell that.”

      “Fine.  I won’t.”

      “Do you have any idea what you’ll get for intent to distribute?  Why?  Why in the world would you do something so stupid?”

      “If you have to ask, then it is not I who is the stupid one.”

Lestrade took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Of course he knew why Sherlock would turn to dealing.  Money.  And not for food or clothes or anything else they could actually use for basic living, but for more of what he’d shot into his veins already.

      “You could… there is no reason you could not let me go…”

      “No reason?  How about you broke the fucking law!”

      “Then let me escape!”

The desperation was rising in Sherlock’s voice as the severity of the situation began to work its way into his chemically-altered mind.

      “How?  I’m not the only one that’s seen you here and if you think I’m going to say you overpowered me and got away, you’re insane!”

      “But… you have to do something!  I cannot go to prison!”

      “Oh, sure you can.  Just like every other drugs peddler I drag in.  There’s no difference just because I know you.”

But there was.  There _was_ a difference because he didn’t know anyone else’s story.  Lestrade was certain they had one and possibly a story a lot more sad and pitiful than Sherlock’s, but he didn’t _know_ it.  He didn’t know _them_ and what they could do when they were sober.  What they could do if they just got themselves clean.  But he knew that about Sherlock.  And he knew exactly what it would do to his brother if he did get sent away…

      “Here… give all that to me.”

Sherlock dropped his substantial horde into Lestrade’s hands and nearly gasped seeing the PC dump most of it into his own pockets.  The rest, no more than a few pills and a moderate bag of cannabis, was duly cataloged before Lestrade motioned Sherlock out of the room.

      “Lestrade, I…”

      “No… not right now.  Just do not talk to me anymore right now.  I’m putting my job on the line for you and you will do me the courtesy of just keeping your fucking mouth shut and cooperating fully with everything everyone asks you to do.”

Sherlock simply nodded and followed Lestrade out to be handed over to another officer, who took possession of him and the drugs that Lestrade declared the sum total of Sherlock’s infraction.  Without another word or a backwards glance, the very conflicted PC returned to his duties, pausing briefly in one of the cleared rooms and shoving Sherlock’s stash behind the cushions of a chair, checking first that there wasn’t already a needle or two hidden there and waiting for an inattentive hand.  Then, he took a moment to shove every bit of guilt over betraying his job as far as he could to the back of his mind.  He had a job to do and would do it.  He’d do it and later he would give himself permission to kick himself to the gutter for doing what he’d just done.  And by later, he meant _very_ later, because he wouldn’t have time to tear himself to pieces while he was busy _picking up_ the bits and pieces that had once been the heart and soul of Mycroft Holmes…


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my very sincere thanks for everyone's support and kind words for this story!

Lestrade carried on with the others clearing the house and paid no attention to the younger Holmes brother who, at least, was following his orders and behaving himself.  However, there was one thing Lestrade had to do or he wouldn’t be able to live with himself for the break he’d given Sherlock.

      “Sergeant?”

      “Oh, PC…”

      “Lestrade, sir.”

      “Yes, sorry.  Problem?”

      “Well… I’m not exactly sure so I thought I’d just tell you up front.  I know one of the people we’re taking in.  Well, I know his brother, that is.  I just didn’t want it to come out later and have things go wrong because I didn’t speak up.”

      “Ah… well, we’ll keep you out of the rest of the processing but, he’s still here and… was he found with anything?”

      “Yes, sir.  It’s been logged.”

      “Then it’ll be fine.  I’m glad you said something, though.  No reason to give anyone any cause to squawk that he got preferential treatment.  Good job.”

And that was that.  His sergeant turned and walked away without a further care, leaving Lestrade with a little less acid eating away at his stomach.  Now, what was done was done and, with his hands washed of the business, he could get onto other things.  Like finding a solicitor to talk to Sherlock and praying that the idiot kept behaving well enough to actually be awarded bail.

__________

When he finally was able to leave for the day, Lestrade flew towards Mycroft’s flat, hoping that the artist hadn’t left early to set up.  The conversation they needed to have wasn’t really suited for a nice people-watching spot along a busy footpath.  He’d stayed to his orders and not had any further role in last night’s events, but had taken a moment to check on Sherlock, just to be sure he was ok and to let him know that yes, he was going to be charged.  But, he could also reassure the boy that he’d made a few calls and secured him a good solicitor who had a solid reputation for getting the funding to pay his client’s legal costs, so that, at least, shouldn’t be a worry.  If things changed… well, then they’d figure something out.

Lestrade grabbed a stick on the way and used it to tap on Mycroft’s window since an early-morning bang on the door might just make the landlord unhappy and he did not want to do anything else to tear apart Mycroft’s day.  In a few moments, a familiar face appeared and gave Lestrade a large and bright smile before disappearing to open the front door.

      “Good heavens!  I had not expected you this morning, Gregory, but I am very happy to see you.  Please, come in, I was just finishing my tea and would welcome a second cup.”

Lestrade gave his lover a kiss and what he hoped was an encouraging smile, then followed the taller man down to his flat.

      “Do make yourself comfortable.  Sherlock has apparently decided to sleep in his laboratory again, which leaves us with an uninterrupted morning to enjoy.”

If that wasn’t an opening provided by providence, Lestrade didn’t know what was.

      “I’m sorry, Mycroft, but Sherlock’s not sleeping in his lab.”

Lestrade had tried not to use the notifying-the-family tone, but, apparently, he hadn’t done a very good job.

      “Gregory?  What has happened?  Is Sherlock… is my brother alright?”

Mycroft’s face was pale as a sheet, and Lestrade guided him to sit down before he fell down.

      “He’s fine, Mycroft.  No accident or injury, ok?  But… I’m sorry, right now he’s in custody.”

It took Mycroft several seconds to pull together the words of that sentence. The first portion was very welcome, relieving, even.  The latter half… already he felt a cannonball-sized weight developing in the pit of his stomach.

      “What did he do?”

      “I think you know.”

Yes, yes he did.  Or, he could provide a very well-considered guess.

      “You saw him?  He was well, you said…”

      “Mycroft… I don’t really know how to say this, so I’ll just start at the beginning.  We got a call, went to see what was what and it… sort of escalated into a fairly large raid of a house…”

      “Gregory, are you telling me you were present when Sherlock was arrested?”

      “I’m telling you that I’m the one that actually did the arresting, I guess.”

Lestrade wondered why he was still standing like he was ready for inspection and took the other chair at Mycroft’s small table.  It would be easier to take Mycroft’s anger and betrayal if he was sitting down.  Though the anger and betrayal was taking it’s time in coming.  The PC looked at his lover and had to actually wonder if the man was even there anymore.  His vibrant and lively eyes looked vacant and unfocused.  There was a laxness to his features that screamed Mycroft’s brain just wasn’t doing its job to even make the muscles properly hold up his skin.

      “Mycroft…”

      “ _You_ arrested him?”

      “Well, I found him, me and a mate, that is.  There were a lot of junk… people in the house and it was coincidence that I ran across him.  I mean… I would have run into him at some point, but… it was me that took charge of him and made sure he was… not going anywhere.  Not that he really could have.  I mean he was pretty high and trying to get past any of us would have been…”

      “Please tell me he did not attempt to evade arrest.”

      “No… no, he stayed quiet.  I basically told him that he’d better not do anything to cause trouble and… he actually listened for a change.  But, Mycroft… I have to ask… did you know he was dealing?”

If Lestrade hadn’t shot out his arms and grabbed, Mycroft’s head would have struck the table and that seemed to have been his intention and the artist struggled to continue to push it down as if smashing his head on the wood could change what he just heard.

      “Ok, I guess the answer’s no.”

Finally, Mycroft seemed to regain enough of his composure that Lestrade let him go, with a final run of his hands down the man’s neck and arms to rest his hands on the artist’s own.

      “The answer is most decidedly no.  It has been… well, I have shared with you the history of Sherlock’s situation, so you are aware it has been a troubling, but relatively infrequent problem.  As it has been escalating, however… I supposed I should not be surprised by this turn of events, but I am.  I would never have predicted that Sherlock would do such a thing, if for the only reason that he cares so little about others that he would have absolutely no interest in interacting with them in order to perpetrate a successful transaction.  I… I am not unaware as to the law’s views on those who proffer drugs, Gregory.  This will go harshly for him, will it not?”

      “Dealers aren’t given an easy go, that’s true, but I think I kept that off… well, maybe his solicitor will be able to…”

Mycroft’s eyes regained a great deal of their life and Lestrade was not exactly happy about the fact because those very fiery eyes were now staring at him as if they were trying to see directly into his brain by first drilling a hole in his skull with their magical laser power.

      “Gregory… what did you do?”

      “Nothing.  Not really anything important…”

      “If that were the case you would not be affecting the expression of a child caught pilfering biscuits.  Please do not lie to me.”

      “I’m not lying… much.  It was like this… I had Sherlock turn out his pockets – standard procedure – and he pulled out a fuck-all massive amount of stuff.  Far more than he’d need for personal use and a big assortment of flavors, too.”

      “Did he admit to his intent to sell his inventory?”

      “To me he did.  Not to anyone else, though.  And… it wasn’t like all of that was logged in with him, anyway.”

      “Explain.”

      “Can I just say it was the little fairies and leave it at that.”

      “Now is not the proper time for jest, Gregory.  What exactly do you mean when you say Sherlock was not credited with his proper share of the substances?”

One very deep breath preceded Lestrade saying anything because he knew that this was just going to add to Mycroft’s overall guilt and unease.

      “I mean that most of them may have accidentally fallen behind a cushion and he only held onto enough to merit a possession charge.”

Lestrade stared at Mycroft and held his tongue while his lover closed his eyes and sat quietly.  At least his body was quiet; it was very easy for the young PC to see how hard Mycroft’s mind was working fast and furious.  When two fat, heavy tears began to roll down Mycroft’s cheeks, Lestrade stopped watching and went into action, leaping from his chair and pulling Mycroft over to the small bed where he could more easily hold his artist as he released his black and bitter emotions.  After a long time, Mycroft’s body stopped trembling and Lestrade nudged him downward so they could lay on the bed, with Mycroft’s head resting on Lestrade’s chest.

      “I am… I am so sorry, Gregory.  I cannot, not in a thousand years, offer sufficient an apology.  What if you are found out?  You should never have risked your position…”

      “I wasn’t found out, love.”

      “But it could have happened!  For someone who would not have thanked you for it!”

      “I didn’t do it for his thanks.”

      “Then why?  Why would you do this for him?  The compromising of your principles alone is… you should never be asked to do such a thing.”

      “I honestly don’t know.  I think… I think it’s because I knew what he _could_ be someday.  That maybe if he went down hard he’d lose whatever chance he might have had to be the person I suspect he has the potential to be.  Someone of quality.  Someone who could make a difference.  And… I knew what it would do to you, I won’t hide that.  I don’t know what’ll happen in court, but with a simple possession charge it shouldn’t be terrible.  But, selling, especially with the quantity I found on him… he could have seen prison time and having him get put away would have destroyed you, Mycroft, I’m not blind to that and there’s no way I could have let it happen. I could _never_ have let that happen to you.  And I didn’t let him go, which is what he wanted.  He didn’t get to walk away from things.  He’ll still have to go to court for what he did and since we caught him dead to rights, he _will_ be convicted.  He’ll have a record now, too, and that could cause trouble for him in the future depending on what type of work he ends up doing.  I guess… I guess my conscience is bothered, but it’s not so bothered that I can’t live with it.”

Mycroft curled more fully around his lover and marveled at how a person could feel both tremendous shame and blissful elation at the same moment.  This wonderful man had no business being within a thousand miles of him or Sherlock, but Mycroft was indescribably glad that he was, because Gregory was correct.  If Sherlock had been fated to endure the next several years in prison, Mycroft would have been destroyed.  His guilt would have consumed him alive.

      “You’re very quiet, love, and that’s worrying me.”  

      “I do apologize.  I am ruminating on matters, attempting to find a proper and fitting way to thank you for…”

      “Hey!  None of that.  Not a bit of that…”

Lestrade tightened his grip on Mycroft’s body and pressed a kiss on the top of his lover’s head.

      “… We’re in this together, right?  Just doing my part.  And it’s not as if I don’t know what else is going through your head and that’s enough for you to deal with.  Tell me, how guilty _are_ you feeling right now?”

Mycroft heaved a huge sigh and suffered again a dichotomy.  He both adored and despised how easily the PC could read his thoughts and his mood.

      “Cripplingly, if I am to be honest.  It _is_ my fault, Gregory.  The circumstances in which we live… the example I have set, the lax hand I have used for his rearing... Sherlock has not been provided with anything approaching an appropriate environment to give him a foundation on which to build a set of acceptable behaviors.”

      “Your brother’s a prat, Mycroft.  And that’d be true if you were rich as god or a pastor’s kids.  Yeah, there are some things about him, and you, that make you different from us average folks, and thank heavens for it, but it doesn’t change that he _could_ be something other than a snotty little bastard that’s flushing his life down the drain.  _That_ is not on you.”

      “Perhaps not… but that does not alleviate my responsibility for him.  I shall simply have to try something new… something different.  My current repertoire of strategies are obviously insufficient.”

      “Ok then, we’ll put our heads together on it.  There’s usually a few counselors milling about the station and I can ask them for some ideas.  And I wouldn’t be surprised if that was part of his sentence for this offense.  We’ll see what we can do.”

      “You use ‘we’ so freely, my dear.  I greatly fear that you will grow _very_ weary of that term.”

      “There you go again, letting your brain run away with you.  Don’t waste your energy worrying about things that aren’t going to happen.”

      “Because I have too much to worry about that _will_?”

      “Well, if you want to be all negative about it, you big git.”

Finally, a tiny chuckle out of his artist and Lestrade felt a bit of his own anxiety float away.

      “I mean, you could look at it as because I’ve got myself a smart and sexy man that I very much like being a ‘we’ with.   But, if you’re determined to mope…”

This chuckle was a little louder and Lestrade wondered if he could convince Mycroft to forget trying to do any work today and lay in bed with him all day, instead.

      “I shall do my best to maintain a stiff upper lip.  In the meantime… what must I do now?  For Sherlock, I mean.”

      “Well, I got him matched with some legal help and… crap, you don’t have a phone… well, we can go to my flat and I can call to see if he’s been given bail, which I suspect won’t be a problem as long as he hasn’t done anything stupid since I left.  When we’ve got that information, well, I sincerely doubt they’ll ask for any surety, but I can go to the bank…”

      “Absolutely not.  Gregory, I cannot ask that of you.  I _shall_ not ask that of you.”

      “Ok, then don’t.  It’s not like you actually _have_ to ask, anyway, because I’d already planned for it.  It won’t happen, I promise, it never does… but even if it did it wouldn’t be too high since the charge is pretty minor and since he’s got an address and is working on a degree, they won’t see him as much of a flight risk.”

      “Minimal or not, it is on me to provide the funds should the need arise.”

      “Then we share.  I’m not going to let you drain whatever you’ve got put aside and wind up not being able to eat or pay the rent.  And… well, when he goes to court he could get a fine and that’s going to be more money to lay out.”

      “I am not content with this, Gregory, let me be very clear on the matter.”

      “I don’t expect you to be.  _I_ wouldn’t be, but we can’t change the reality of things, can we?  Can I ask... do you have _anything_ set aside?”

      “I hold a small reservoir of funds for Sherlock’s educational needs; however…”

      “Yeah?”

      “He has taken to occasionally absconding with a few notes here and there, therefore my reservoir has been diminishing of late.”

      “Perfect.  Well, at least that’s typical younger-brother behavior.  I’ve got _some_ in the bank, and could probably scrape up more somehow if they do fine him.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Mycroft… see, I can say your name, too.  Look, how about this.  You know how much I love your last painting.  How about we trade?  I get that and you get what it’ll take to get Sherlock out of this mess.  I mean, you’d get a lot more if you sold it, but…”

      “It is yours.  Even without recompense, it is yours as a gift for… for what you have already done for Sherlock.  And anything else you wish from me.  Simply ask and you shall have it.”

      “I have exactly what I want and he’s right here.  It’ll be alright, Mycroft.  We’ll get Sherlock through this and then it’ll just be a bad memory.  So, you want to come home with me so we can use the phone?  I can take care of things myself, though, if you want to go out and get some work done…”

      “No, though the income is more needed now than ever, I doubt I would be of a mind to properly satisfy anyone’s sense of artistry enough for them to willingly offer payment for what I produce.”

      “That your way of saying you’re too fuddled to paint?”

      “Quite.”

      “Ok then.  You need some time before we go?”

      “A few minutes, if you have the time to give.”

      “I’ve got the time, love.  You just relax.”

Not that Mycroft could, at least not completely.  But laying against his Gregory, his muscles had been slowly losing its tension and now, he simply needed a moment or two to clear his mind.  The warmth and solidity of the body he was wrapped around was helping that goal immeasurably.  There would be much to do and Sherlock would be… it would be foolish to believe that Sherlock would be meek, contrite and willing to mend his ways as he stepped out of police hands.  He would likely be frustrated, frightened, unsure… all things that he characteristically manifested as increased hostility.  A little time to take some simple comfort, receive his own measure of support… this would make enduring his brother far, far easier.

__________

Mycroft lay quietly for some time and Lestrade was beginning to nod off when the artist finally unfurled his long form and stood up at the side of the bed.

      “I believe I am ready.”

Lestrade had other thoughts and got out of bed to wet a cloth with cool water for helping to soothe Mycroft’s reddened eyes and still-flushed skin.

      “You are far too solicitous, my dear.”

      “Nope, I’m just solicitous enough.  Feel better?”

      “Much.”

And that was said with perfect honesty.  Mycroft _did_ feel a great deal better than he did before, though he suffered his own bit of shame for breaking down so embarrassingly.   But, as he observed his lover’s face, there was no judgment to be found, as there never seemed to be with the man who was tending to him gently and carefully.  Maybe one day he would understand what it was in him that made his Gregory content to do this, but that day was not today.

      “Good, then we should be going.  I really could use some coffee and maybe something breakfast-like.”

      “Then isn’t it fortunate that you shall be accompanied by someone who knows the ins and outs of your kitchen and a highly skilled preparer of breakfast-like foodstuffs?”

      “You offering to cook?”

      ‘I have already decided upon it, so consider the matter closed.”

      “I love it when you go all dominant on me.”

      “Something we can explore in far more detail at a later time.”

      “I’ll hold you to that.”

      “I would be very disappointed if you did not.”

__________

While Mycroft put together breakfast, Lestrade made the necessary calls to determine that Sherlock did receive bail and was being processed out.

      “Well, Sherlock on his way to release.  They held him long enough for the crap to clear out of his system, but he’ll be a free man soon.”

      “I would like to be present at his release.  I… I do not trust that Sherlock would simply make his way home.”

      “You’re probably right about that.  He’s still got a bit before he’s on the street, so there’s time to eat and get over there.”

      “I would not trouble you further, Gregory.  I know that you have yet to sleep…”

      “That’s not a problem.  I want to be there for you.  Sherlock’s going to be a handful, isn’t he?”

Mycroft set the plates he’d prepared on the table and took a moment to refill Lestrade’s coffee.

      “Likely.  He reacts poorly to situations beyond his control.   But, is it prudent that you be observed with us?  You _were_ involved in his arrest.”

      “I told the sergeant on scene that I knew Sherlock, so that’s out in the open.  And beyond the initial discovery, I was hands-off with him.  It’ll be fine.”

      “Then I would very much appreciate your presence.  Sherlock may ameliorate his behavior if he has an audience besides me and it might also provide some caution to _me_ to temper my responses.”

      “Things with you two get a little heated sometimes?”

      “On occasion.  I have always tried to maintain my calm with Sherlock, else I would _exist_ in a supremely agitated state, however, we have come to the point, at times, where both our frustration and anger rise beyond the point of control and the volume of our encounters increases exponentially.”

      “Anyone take a swing?  I would pay you very good money to let me watch you two beat on each other like regular blokes.”

Mycroft tried to hide his tremendous desire to grin, but it slid across his face despite his best intentions.

      “Fisticuffs, Gregory?  How barbarian.”

      “You say that like it’s a bad thing.  I’d bet on you, if that helps.  I think you’d kick his arse and leave him begging for mercy.”

      “I have no data from recent years to verify or refute your opinion, however, Sherlock was more prone to expressing himself physically when he was young and…”

      “You showed him the error of his ways?”

      “That would be accurate.  He failed to implement even the most basic of tactics when involved in an altercation and his was, therefore, denied victory.”

      “That’s my Mycroft.  I feel much safer now, knowing you’re around to protect me.”

      “A job I am more than willing to uptake.  I shall gladly stand as your knight and safeguard your person and virtue.”

      “From everybody but you, right.”

      “Well, I presume I could make a single exception.”

__________

Mycroft and Lestrade waited outside and finally they spotted Sherlock’s dark and disheveled figure emerge into the sunshine, which seemed to overwhelm the boy a bit and it took him a moment to get his bearings and notice the two figures waiting for him.

      “Excellent.  The Whore of Babylon and Judas.  I feel blessed.”

      “Sherlock!  You will refrain from issuing your childish insults until we are, at minimum, off the street and may discuss this matter in private.”

      “Then you shall be waiting quite awhile for satisfaction, because I have no intention of doing anything at the moment but returning to my laboratory to check on the status of my work.”

      “No, not a chance.  You’re coming back with Mycroft and me and we’re all going to have a little talk.”

      “I have nothing to say to you, Lestrade.”

      “Then you can just sit there and listen, but we _are_ going to sit down and…”

      “Besides your traitorous involvement in my incarceration, you have no say in this matter.”

      “Gregory has been your friend in this, Sherlock, and you will do him the courtesy of civility at the very least.”

Sherlock’s snort could have blown leaves across the street, however, he made no comment but to begin walking in the direction of their flat.  Lestrade and Mycroft followed a few steps behind, with Lestrade taking Mycroft’s hand and squeezing it lightly.

      “You want to go to my flat?  He could probably use a hot shower and… maybe some neutral ground for clearing the air might help.  Get things sorted and then go home when you’re both feeling a little better?”

      “That might be wise.  It is difficult to argue in our residence where there is not even space to sit behind a closed door and let tempers subside, unless one wishes to use the toilet as a chair.”

      “Sounds good.  You ready for this?”

      “Whether or not I am ready is not relevant at the moment, would you say?”

      “Yeah, the storm’s coming whether you want it or not.”

      “Then I shall begin battening down my hatches.”

__________

Mycroft and Lestrade steered Sherlock to Lestrade’s flat and flanked the younger man who was showing signs of wanting to bolt.  Mycroft’s heart truly ached for his brother because despite his very forceful attempts to show the world a face of supreme disdain, Mycroft could see a hundred tiny signs that screamed his brother’s real distress.  Sherlock was frightened, confused, disappointed in himself for not evading this situation, worried for what this will mean for him in both the short and long term and a score of other concerns that were entirely valid and eating at the edges of the younger man’s mind.  Mycroft could only hope that Sherlock would allow himself to actually set aside his façade and work with them to help manage some of those concerns and not simply retreat further behind his wall where he would remain out of reach.

Lestrade opened the door to his flat and surreptitiously pressed the key he’d had made the day before into Mycroft’s hands.  The artist’s eyes went wide, but Lestrade simple smiled warmly at him and gave the key-holding hand a small pat.  He had no reservations at handing Mycroft a key, even with the implications that went with it.  In fact, if he was to be honest, he liked the implications.  Yeah, it was good to give Mycroft a place to work or get away from his brother but… it also felt good to let his artist know that, well… everything those implications actually implied.

      “Why are we here?”

      “Because if your brother goes barbarian on you, I’ve got a comfortable chair to sit in and watch.”

Sherlock’s confusion was only heightened by his brother’s laughter and he began pacing to at least give him some way to hide his mental state.

      “We simply hoped that a fresh environment might facilitate our discussion.  And, Gregory has kindly offered you the use of his shower, which I recommend you accept.  The aroma of your experience is one I am certain you are as displeased to endure as am I.”

Mycroft watched his brother’s eyes narrow, but they could not hide the flash of excitement at the idea of washing the night off his back.

      “Come on, Sherlock.  I’ll find some clothes for you.”

Lestrade nodded at the young man to follow him and Mycroft was relieved that his brother followed with no further word, good or ill.  While his lover tended to his brother, Mycroft began to brew some much-needed tea and took a moment to look at the small present with which he had been gifted.  A key.  He had not been entirely certain if their conversation about his ability to occasionally use the space for his work was completely serious on Lestrade’s part, but apparently it was.  Such a small thing, a little key, yet it represented so very much, because Mycroft knew this was more than being offered a chance at a quiet place to work.  He was being offered a place in Lestrade’s heart.

      “Sorry it only opens my door and not some palace gate or something.”

Warm arms slid around Mycroft’s body and a small string of kisses trailed across the back of his neck.  After a moment of hesitation, Mycroft decided that it was a good day for candor.

      “I do not believe that your door is the sum total of what this key unlocks, my dear.”

Lestrade had his own moment of hesitation, but figured that if Mycroft could be bold, he couldn’t be anything less.

      “No, it’s not.  But that part’s been unlocked for awhile now, actually.  Maybe since the first day we met; it feels that way, at least.  Does that… are you ok with it?”

_Ok_ … such an impoverished word for what Mycroft was feeling at the moment.

      “I have not the proper vocabulary for what I wish to express, Gregory.  Truly, I cannot pluck a term from my mind that would do justice to your words and what they mean to me.  The best I can offer is my assurance that I reciprocate fully, though I did not believe I would ever find myself provided with the opportunity to be in this position.  Are you, as you say, ok with the knowledge that it is my hope to pursue this?  That it is my intention to press upon you my own key, with the same physical and metaphorical meanings?”

Lestrade gently spun the taller man and took him in a long kiss, partly to show his response and partly to keep from having to say something and potentially babbling away until he looked like an idiot.  This, in his arms, was his.  This gorgeous, brilliant man was _his_.  And he would do everything in his power to keep it that way. 

The two men embraced until the sound of running water stopped, meaning the pleasant part of their day was at an end.

      “Last chance for us to lock him in here and go off and have a pint or two.”

      “I thought the purpose of our mission was to _prevent_ his incarceration?”

      “I’m a benevolent jailer.  We can bring him back some pizza.”

Mycroft took one last kiss from his PC’s lips, gave him a smile and took a deep, cleansing breath.

      “Perhaps that can be his reward if we survive our discussion.”

      “ _We’ll_ survive it, Mycroft.  I’ve got less confidence about him.”

      “Sherlock’s stubbornness and antagonism cannot be underestimated, Gregory.”

      “You’re a barbarian and I’m a ninja cop.  Really, what chance does the lad have?”

      “Oh, do tell me we shall be allowed some form of costume appropriate to our standing?”

      “I’ll get my needle and thread.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments and encouragement. I treasure every bit of it!

Sherlock slowly walked into the kitchen wearing his borrowed clothes and Mycroft did his best to give him an encouraging smile.  His brother’s posture was deplorable, however, Mycroft knew it was an unconscious means to make himself seem smaller than normal.  At the very, very least, Sherlock had some awareness of the seriousness of the situation.

      “Ah, Sherlock.  Come and join us.”

Mycroft indicated an empty chair at the table and emphasize his offer by setting down a fresh cup of tea.  Sherlock gave him a lukewarm glare, then took the seat, as well as a long sip of the warming drink.

      “How you feeling, Sherlock?  No one gave you trouble, did they?”

      “Though your brethren are as neanderthalistic as you, they did not succumb to their violent urges, if that is your question.”

      “I was a little more worried about whomever they might have tossed in with you, but it’s good to know the boys are following the rules, too.  Want something to eat?”

No matter his brother’s answer, Mycroft set a plate of food down in front of him and hoped that Sherlock was neither to stubborn nor too distressed to eat.  When the younger man lifted his fork and began to take a few hesitant bites, Mycroft released a soft and very relieved sigh and took his own seat at the table.

      “I presume you shall now proceed to castigate me for my behavior.”

      “Dunno.  Mycroft, is that what we’re going to do?”

      “I do not think that particular strategy would work to our advantage.  I believe a more interrogatory approach would be appropriate.”

      “Sounds good to me.  You want to go first?”

      “Very well.  Sherlock, would you tell us why you placed yourself in that filthy and dangerous situation?  That was not too castigatory, I hope?”

Sherlock took a large bite of toast and chased it with more tea before answering.

      “Is there a better place to, as you say, place myself?”

      “I could enumerate a rather sizeable list, actually, so please refrain from pointless and unproductive sarcasm.  Despite your notions to the contrary, we _are_ trying to help you.”

      “Help?  Helping me would have been him letting me go!”

      “No, helping you most certainly does not involve further enabling your behavior.  As it stands, Gregory took a substantial risk positioning you to receive a lesser charge.”

      “And wouldn’t his superiors be interested to know that?  I am quite certain they would be very intrigued by that bit of information.”

Before Mycroft could speak, Lestrade leaned back in his chair and set a very wide and _very_ challenging smile on his lips.

      “Go ahead.”

Mycroft watched his brother closely because his Gregory had no idea the depths to which the phrase ‘cut off his nose to spite his face’ applied to Sherlock.

      “Perhaps I shall.”

      “Well, enjoy yourself.  I’ve even got a phone you can use.  Of course, you’d have to admit to having the drugs in the first place, which would kick your sentence right up into the dealer category and wouldn’t that just be wonderful.  I’d lose my job and then they’d send me to prison, but I bet I could have a few strings pulled to make sure we got placed together for the next decade.  Give me lots of time to show my appreciation.”

      “It is my understanding that police officers do not do well in prison.  I suspect you would have far more pressing matters to worry about than exacting your petty revenge.”

      “There’s some truth to that, but you’re forgetting a few things.  First off, I’m pretty new to the job and very low in the ranks.  There’s not a lot of blokes that have been put away because of me to really stir things up.  And, I’d be moldering away because I tried to keep someone _out_ of prison.  Tried to help out a mate.  Not exactly evil old copper behavior.  Then there’s you.  The person I tried to help out who turned around and reported me.  So people will know you’re untrustworthy and will throw a friend to the wolves.  Which one of us do you think will have the easier time?  And let’s not forget that I’m a likeable person and you’re a surly, arrogant bastard.”

Mycroft simply relaxed and allowed himself the indulgence of admiring his Police Constable.  How masterful he was when he engaged in argument.  And how utterly beguiling.

      “There may be merit to you words, however, I would insist on some form of deal before I revealed the name of the offending officer.”

      “Oh, you would?  Well, that changes things.”

Sherlock’s triumphant smile began to falter when Lestrade leaned further back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head.

      “You might get your deal, too.  Then, you’d be the traitorous piece of rubbish that turned on the PC that tried to help him and how do you think the rest of the force would feel about that?  Christ, a lot of them have probably done something questionable for family or a friend at some point.  How’s it going to feel, you think, having your every movement watched so that when you do _anything_ , you’re going to be arrested?  Over and over.  And I can’t guarantee that some of the lads won’t take matters into their own hands to show you their disfavor.  So, there’s the phone.  Feel free to use it.  Mycroft… more tea?”

      “I would greatly appreciate a cup, my dear.”

Lestrade rose from the table and Mycroft did his best not to stare at the man’s backside as he basically swaggered over to the stove.  Simply and perfectly masterful…

      “Now that we have established that your threat is a hollow one, Sherlock… will you provide an answer to my original inquiry?”

Since it would thrust his brother into a blacker mood if he laughed at the very frustrated and enraged expression on his face, Mycroft plucked a forkful of egg from Sherlock’s plate and concentrated, instead, on chewing.

      “If it satisfies you to know, I was obtaining… materials… and was offered something I preferred at a discounted rate.  I saw no reason to refuse.”

      “The fact that it was both illegal and damaging to you were not sufficient reasons?”

      “I think the answer to that is obvious.  Excessive time with the lower class seems to have dulled your reasoning abilities.”

      “Insulting Gregory will not aid your situation and, I do seem to remember a time where he deftly outmaneuvered you in debate.  Quite recently, actually, though the exact second slips my mind at the moment.”

Sherlock snarled at his placidly-smiling brother, but didn’t comment, choosing to take his own bite of egg as an excuse.

      “Ok, you got a cheap high and took it.  What’s concerning me more is why in the fuck you decided to start selling.  You’re not stupid, Sherlock, boiling your brain with drugs notwithstanding, and you had to know how much trouble you could get into if you got caught.  You got very, very lucky that me and my mate got the call so I was there, as opposed to chasing down some pickpocket.  Anyone else and you’d be facing something a hell of a lot worse that what you are now.  I just want to understand why you’d do something so completely insane when you had to _know_ it was insane.”

      “It is irrelevant since I no longer have anything to vend.”

      “Right now, yeah.  But what about tomorrow?  Look, Sherlock… I need to know that you’re not going down that road again.  I absolutely have to know that we’re not going to be in this position in the future or in a position that’s even worse.”

      “And I, for one, would like to know your reason for making such a choice, brother, if only so that I may take steps to see that it is no longer a tempting one for you.”

Sherlock looked between Lestrade and Mycroft and hoped for one, _one_ , tiny smirk or glint of contempt in either man’s expression, but found nothing.  They were giving him nothing to rage against and that was the most maddening thing of all!  All of this… reasonableness… was unsettling in the extreme.

      “If you hope to find some great revelation in my motives, you shall be sorely disappointed.  It is simply a matter of commerce… sell and witness a profit.”

      “Money.  Is that truly the extent of your motivations, Sherlock?  Please, now, if ever, is the time for honesty.”

Sherlock launched up from his chair and began pacing in the small kitchen.

      “Should there be anything deeper?  We live like animals, Mycroft!  When is the last time I experienced a hot shower?  Or heat of any form?  Do you think I desire to nurse you through another winter of illness since you insist on placing yourself out in the elements for no other reason but to indulge your selfishness?  Which is the root of all of our problems!  We live on the barest minimum of amenities because you refuse to set aside your foolish aspiration and take true employment!  You fail even to take the necessary steps to promote or sell the pieces you produce, beyond those nonsensical sketches you make for the dimwitted public.”

Lestrade bristled sharply at the idea of Mycroft being ill and at the laughable thought of Sherlock providing aide.  Last winter had been nasty for colds and flu…

      “Sherlock… I willingly accept every bit of accountability for my inadequacies and failures.  I have admitted to and will continue to take responsibility for my self-serving decisions, while doing everything I can to give us what life I am able.  But why now?  We do not live in the grandest of manners, I agree, but you are fed, you do not live on the street and are safe from the whims of the weather, you have clothing and access to a very good education, books are freely available from the libraries and the city and your school do not lack for other opportunities for entertainment at no charge.  And, for you, this is temporary!  Once you have completed your studies, you will be excellently positioned to begin a promising career.  You have already had inquiries, have you not?”

      “From avenues in which I have no interest.”

      “But they occurred, nonetheless, and more will present themselves.  A few more years, Sherlock, and you will have the world at your feet and can, if you wish, give neither this life nor myself a second thought.”

      “And such is my wholehearted intent.”

Mycroft placed a hand on Lestrade’s leg to calm his lover’s rising anger.

      “Very well.  It is, of course, your choice.  But do you see my point?  We have little, I grant you, but we do not have _nothing_.  If you desire, we may revisit our discussion on seeking government assistance…”

      “I shall not agree to such debasement.”

      “I concur.  Though it may be argued, and you do frequently, that I have little pride, I do possess some small amount and I also do not find the idea of taking that form of help acceptable.  However, if you… I can try, Sherlock… I can be more aggressive in presenting my work to potential buyers or galleries,  seek a better location to gain custom… I can find a location that would offer me the opportunity to ply my trade in the evening, as well as the day… I will do everything possible, brother, if you simply promise not to do something this foolish again.  We are not, even now, in so dire a need of funds that…”

      “We would be in far better circumstances if you simply realized your _own_ foolishness and put your time to better use finding and maintaining productive employment!”

This time it was Lestrade resting his hand on Mycroft’s leg to soothe his partner’s emotions, and, partly, to keep himself from leaping onto the younger man and pounding him unconscious.

      “This is an old battleground, Sherlock, and one that does not need to see further conflict.  That I hold onto the one thing…”

      “And what do I have to hold onto!”

Sherlock’s yell nearly rattled the dishes on the table and the two older men stared in shock, afraid almost to pursue Sherlock’s source of upset.

      “What do I have, Mycroft?  Everything I ever had, ever wanted, is gone.  The life that should have been mine is lost, the possibilities, the opportunities…”

      “You have new ones, Sherlock…”

      “But are they the ones I desire?  Did you ever, a single time, ask yourself that question?  You cling to your dream, but what of mine?  Why did mine have to be binned, while you were allowed to hold onto yours?”

Mycroft blinked and blinked again, trying to restart his thinking.  Sherlock was being given a great gift… but what if it was not one he had ever wanted?

      “Do you… are you saying that you did not want to pursue your scientific abilities?”

      “Was it your music, lad?  If so… I promised Mycroft I wouldn’t pay off his debt, but I’ll break that promise and get your violin back today if that will…”

      “Dolt.  Of course I am not speaking of music… do you believe I would ruin my life with a ridiculous pursuit as has Mycroft?”

      “Sherlock, please… this is exceedingly important.  What do you want for your life?  If the source of your dissonance is…”

      “I do not know!  I have no idea what I want because I was never _allowed_ to want! Father and Mother did not encourage choices, did they?  After their abject humiliation with _your_ choices, they were not so lenient in giving me leave to even explore what I might wish for my own livelihood?  I had thought… once they were dead, I had thought that I might have some say in my life, but that also did not manifest.  You _must_ do this, Sherlock, but you _mustn’t_ do that.  We _are_ moving to London and you _will_ attend this college… you do exactly as you please with your life, but mine… mine is not something I have a say in.  So I go to tedious lectures, throwing away the useless knowledge nearly the moment it enters my head and exist only for those times where I can go to the laboratory and actually… finally do something of interest to me.”

      “But that, at least, is a good thing, is it not?”

      “It is not enough!  If there is something of which I am convinced it is that I do not want to spend my life grubbing for grant monies, slaving for projects that _others_ find important, answering to administrators, serving on committees… all of which I would suffer entering either the world of academics or industry.”

Mycroft wondered when he had lost control of things… not just the conversation, but of his family.  Sherlock was quite correct, he had been given few choices and, if he was to be honest with himself, partially because he was somewhat convinced Sherlock would throw away his opportunities, given the chance, simply to be difficult and contrary.  It was _his_ job to ensure his brother had the best possible future, but if he were unhappy… discontent… then it would not be worth the effort to sacrifice or fair to him, either.

      “You have valid points, Sherlock; I acknowledge that.  And you are not wrong in that you have been presented with limited choices, though it was not because of mine that yours were curtailed.  Mother and Father often worried that, because of you nature, you would forever be adrift without some form of restraint and direction.  If I have followed their model too rigorously, then I sincerely apologize and will make adjustments to my own behaviors accordingly.  The one thing I will not permit, however, is that you leave school entirely.  If you desire a different degree, then I shall accept that and continue to do what I must to see your education fully funded, but I cannot, _will_ _not_ , have you languish in my situation.  For as long as you require, I will support you, Sherlock, until you find what you seek, but I will not allow you to close doors important to any future you pursue.”

      “Support me?  In the manner to which I have become accustomed, I suppose.”

Now Lestrade could not hold his tongue.

      “Mycroft’s right, you bastard… you may not live like a king, but you _do_ live.  And better than some people I run across out there each and every day.  Mycroft has devoted himself to keeping you safe, secure and with an education and all at his own expense.  Want to know about the fight I had to have with him so that he got some leftovers to eat because he was going to give all of them to you?  How often do you sit down for dinner and he says he already ate or isn’t hungry?  That’s because he’s giving you as much as he can so you stay fit even though it leaves him skin and bones.  Your clothes don’t look so bad, too worn or mended.  Not as much as his do.  When’s the last time you got something new to wear?  Now try and remember when you saw something new for him.”

      “Gregory, please…”

      “Nope, sorry Mycroft, but some things have to be said.  You don’t like that he follows his dream, Sherlock, well go cry in a corner or something, but if you’re trying to punish him by making his life as hard as possible, heaping on as much guilt as you can, then you’re not only a poor excuse for a brother, you’re a poor excuse for a human being.  Truthfully, I don’t think you’re consciously trying to do anything like that, but little immature brats do it without thinking and you’d better start growing out of that phase and stop embarrassing yourself and hurting Mycroft.  And destroying your own life isn’t going to gain you any form of revenge you’ll be able to enjoy because your brain will be too shot to appreciate it or you’ll be too busy trying to remember not to pick up the soap when you drop it in the prison shower.  Now, you keep telling him to go and work, but I don’t see any broken limbs on you.  You could get a job, work a few hours to help with things.  Oh, look at you opening your mouth to protest.  What are you going to say?  That you can’t because after your classes you go and do experiments in that lab?  Yeah… there you are going all quiet and looking anywhere but at me.  Feeling a little caught out in your hypocrisy?  I think maybe you’re just as selfish as you accuse him of being.”

Mycroft was torn between grieving his brother’s distress and reveling in the fact that Lestrade seemed to be making some dent in Sherlock’s thick and shiny armor.  Fortunately, he finally decided, the later would prevail.

      “Now, if you were looking to start a side business to get some spending money, because I don’t think for a minute that you’d look to help with the household expenses, then you find something else.  First off, you may think it’s a lark hanging around a drugs house, but you were lucky you didn’t run into anyone dangerous.  You know how many times we pull bodies out of places like that because someone had what someone else wanted?  Second, you associate with an entirely different sort when you start peddling and those people are _not_ the sort you want to be on the wrong side of… and it’s fucking easy to get on their wrong side!  Now… I’m going to assume that you’re going to do some serious thinking about what you’ve been doing and how that should change.  You get caught again and there’ll be no help from me, that much I can promise you.  I won’t compromise my job a further time.  As for you using… if you want help, we can get you help.  That’s not a problem and Mycroft and me will see you through every bit of it.  Might even make your sentencing a little lighter if the court knows you’re making changes in your life, but it’s ok if that doesn’t work for you.  Counseling’s not the right thing for everyone.”

Lestrade cut eyes at Mycroft and gave his partner a comforting smile.

      “And let’s see how things play out.  I traded Mycroft his last painting for help with whatever fine you might be facing… maybe I can trade him another for your violin.  Get it back in your hands faster.  He’ll probably scream about that when you’re out of earshot, but what Mr. Artist doesn’t realize is just how much I am in awe of what he can do and if I saw his stuff in a gallery window, I just might walk in and leave with something even without us ever having met.  So he and I’ll talk about what might happen to get your violin back, because Mycroft says that helps you and if it does… then you should have it.  Especially now.”

Lestrade pretended not to see Mycroft’s narrowed eyes glaring at him and concentrated on the boy who had, for the most part, stopped pacing and listened to their words.  This probably wouldn’t be the last conversation the three of them would have about all of this, in fact it was most likely _not_ the last, but there was some hope, the PC thought.  There was a different look in Sherlock’s eyes and Lestrade crossed his fingers that it was the start of some very serious and honest reflection.  And he could likely use some time alone to get that started…

      “Tell you what… why don’t you go and stretch out on my sofa.  Watch a little telly, I’ve got a couple of books in there… probably not your thing, but might be good for a quick read… relax for awhile and Mycroft and I’ll clean up in here and have our own little chat.”

Lestrade noted that despite Sherlock’s continually-proclaimed contempt for his brother, the boy looked at his sibling and didn’t leave until he saw Mycroft’s smile and small nod.  When they heard the dialogue for some drama being broadcast through the flat, both men felt a massive and, they felt, well-deserved sense of relief.

      “That went far better than I had expected, Gregory.  I was prepared for a far more vitriolic interaction… I do, however, wish I could be more certain if his behavior indicated an accepting or ignoring of our arguments.”

Lestrade moved his chair closer to Mycroft’s and laid an arm around his lover’s shoulders.

      “I think it’s the first one, actually.  If he wanted to ignore us, he could have just walked out the door or done what he’s doing right now, but with the telly volume up a lot higher.  He’s still very young, isn’t he?”

      Emotionally, yes.  And it has always been thus.  He is impulsive, moody, impractical, but also insatiably curious and eager to learn.  Thus, it has ever been a struggle to interact with him in positive and productive way to channel his curiosity and thirst for knowledge towards healthy and beneficial activities.  I suspect that it is only to prevent him having to actually tend to own his basic needs that he has worn my yoke for so long.”

      “Maybe, but he does it, at least.  I think he paid attention to some of what we said, enough that he’s got something to think about now.  Ultimately, he’ll make his own decisions, but maybe we had some influence on him… put something at the back of his head that’ll itch when he goes to do something stupid.  But, I have to ask… I didn’t overstep, did I?  I sort of got going and rambled on…  I don’t want you to think I’m trying to undercut you or be the boss or anything like that because that’s not what I want.  Not at all.”

Mycroft marveled at how Lestrade could shift from forceful and confident one moment to hesitant and uncertain the next.  Ultimately, however, the dynamic was a pleasing and genuinely reassuring one.

      “In truth, I was gladdened that you were so stern and commanding with Sherlock.  He has experienced my demeanor too often for it to be as effective as it once was and a fresh presentation might now make an impact.  However… we _will_ have a conversation about his instrument.”

      “Yeah, that sort of just came out… but I still think it’s a good idea.  You said it was very important for keeping him righted and he really can’t afford any more incidents.  I doubt he’s just going to stop using if he gets his violin back, but if it slows him down… keeps him from going out and doing very idiotic things… then it’s worth it.”

      “Gregory, I was honest when I said I do retain _some_ of my pride.  It is… it is sufficiently difficult to know that you take notice of the quality of my garments and consider me, as you termed it, skin and bones… I cannot have my lack of funds also highlighted so sharply.  Please leave me something…”

Lestrade felt his heart fall into his shoes and kicked his brain as hard as he could.  How could he have been such an imbecile!  Quickly jumping up from his chair, he positioned himself on Mycroft’s, straddling the artist’s body and sitting in his lap so they were face to face.

      “I am a fool, Mycroft.  Not because of how I feel about you, but because I wasn’t thinking about what I said when I was talking to Sherlock.  I don’t think about any of that, love.  Well… not much.  And not in the way you believe.  It only comes to mind when it, well, when it makes me worry.  I don’t think badly of you or judge you… I just worry.  Then Sherlock tells me you were sick last winter and I start worrying about whether you’ve got warm enough clothes and I’d worry about that even if you were rich as god.  I don’t think about anything but that, love.  I just worry you’re healthy and well and comfortable and I won’t apologize for it.  I will, though, apologize for saying things in a way that made you feel bad.  That was horrible of me and I _am_ sorry.  I don’t ever, _ever_ , want you to feel I don’t look at you and absolutely adore everything I’m seeing.  You’re sexy and gorgeous and I’ve never wanted someone as much as I want you.  Ok?”

To give Mycroft time to think, Lestrade leaned in and took his lover in a long, deep kiss that would have escalated into something far more naked if they had been alone in the flat.

      “I am, I believe, properly appeased.  However…”

      “The violin.”

      “Quite.  I do not consider myself an intractable individual and am willing to discuss the issue.  To what compromise do you believe we can agree?”

      “Well, until Sherlock goes to court, we can leave the issue alone, actually, because if he gets a huge fine then we’re probably both going to be skint.  But, no matter what, I can chip in every week to help pay it off so he gets it back quicker.  And we can talk about my painting in compensation when things are a little clearer, too.”

      “Oh, so you _are_ hopeful for another piece for your collection.”

      “Of course I am!  I wasn’t lying about that.“

      “Perhaps, then, you would be willing to pose?”

      “You’re kidding, right?”

Mycroft’s expression implied that he most certainly was _not_ kidding.

      “Finding a model is not an easy thing, especially if one cannot offer payment for their time and I have not often had the urge to seek one, in any case.  Now, however… I cannot think of a more suitable and inspiring model than you and I would dearly love to have you pose for me.  We can discuss the state of your dress, or lack thereof, at a later time.”

      “Oh, so you’re hoping to get me in the buff for your canvas, huh?”

      “If one is to render anatomy properly, one must observe and study the anatomy.  However, we can negotiate the specifics when the time comes.”

      “Why do I have the feeling you’ll run rings around me with that?”

      “Because I _will_.  Do not fret, my dear.  I shall happily conduct the work here where you shall not be chilled.”

      “Oh good, because _that’s_ my biggest concern.”

      “As it should be.  I would far prefer you relaxed and supple, for you will have to hold your pose for quite some time each session.”

      “You mean that for more than art, don’t you, you randy bastard.”

      “I think that shall remain my secret.  For now.”


	12. Chapter 12

There was just something about spending time around a kitchen table with someone you cared about.  Lestrade reluctantly abandoned Mycroft’s lap and retook his chair after Sherlock walked back into the kitchen to get more tea and began to sputter like a backfiring engine seeing his and Mycroft’s current seating position.  But, it really didn’t matter.  On his lover’s lap or sitting across from him, still gazing into his eyes, Lestrade was perfectly content.

      “I don’t suppose you’re willing to take the rest of the day off and spend it with a tired copper who’d like nothing better to have a day around the city with a handsome man on his arm?”

Mycroft smiled over the sip of his mug before setting it down on the table.

      “I can think of no better way to spend my time.  It is not inappropriate that a bit of celebration is in order and I am quite certain Sherlock will want to return to his experiments at some point soon.  That he has indulged us to _this_ point is quite astonishing.”

      “Not to be rude or untrustworthy, but you might want to hide that little savings fund of yours for awhile, just to keep his fingers away from any extra cash.  Or… just dole him out some for a coffee and leave it at that.”

      “That idea is not without merit.   I do grant him a small allowance for incidentals, however, it might  be time for an increase to reduce his temptation to supplement his income in less-than-legal ways.”

      “Can you afford that?”

      “If I restrict expenditures in other areas, yes.  It will be an inconvenience but I do believe a worthy one.”

Worthy or not, it didn’t sit well with Lestrade, who wisely held his tongue on the subject.  Mycroft’s pride had taken enough of a hit from him today without making the matters worse.

      “Good.  Anything that might keep him at least somewhat on the right path.  So, I was thinking maybe a run at the museums today?  I really don’t know the best ones, but I love to explore new places, learn a few new things.  That sound alright to you?”

Mycroft’s smile gave Lestrade his answer and he gave himself a pat on the back for coming up with a good idea.  He hadn’t been to a museum in ages and what a grand way to spend the day with someone who could really use a relaxing spot of time before getting back to the rigors of the real world.

      “What a splendid idea.  It is sufficiently early that we can enjoy quite a robust tour.  And, I shall absolve you of your promise to provide me a night out; you have yet to see any sleep and you begin early tomorrow, do you not?”

      “You are _not_ going to cancel our night out, Mycroft.  I consider today a bonus.  But, we can wrap things up at a reasonable hour and maybe… think you might want to keep me company overnight?  I do have to be out of here early tomorrow, but no earlier than last time, which didn’t seem to upset you too badly.”

      “A day and evening of recreation, followed by a comfortable and shared bed… there is not a flaw in any aspect of that design and I gladly accept.  In all likelihood, Sherlock will not be returning home until the earliest of hours, so I feel no guilt in failing to provide him with companionship.”

      “Then we’ve got a date.  I’ll even grab a shower so I’m presentable enough to be seen with you.”

      “Oh, that is a marvelous idea.  I shall take my turn once you have finished.”

      “Sure you don’t want to join me?”

      “I am quite certain that I very much want to join you, however, I do not think Sherlock would survive the experience of even being in the same building as you and I indulging in such a luxury.”

      “Hah!  You’re probably right.  I promise to leave you some hot water.”

      “I shall hold you to that.”

Lestrade gave Mycroft a kiss and a quick, but very naughty feel up and left with large grin on his face.

      “I thought he would never leave.”

Mycroft looked over to Sherlock, who was leaning against the door frame in a very affected pose of nonchalance.  Obviously, his brother’s upset was still somewhat in play.

      “This _is_ his flat, Sherlock.”

      “Regardless, the atmosphere was becoming rather cloying.”

      “If it pleases you, Gregory has asked me to accompany him for the day so the air should clear most swiftly.  You may accompany us, if you like.  We are to stroll the floors of our city’s fine museums and that is an activity you might actually find pleasing.  We would welcome your company and it _would_ allow you time to become better acquainted with Gregory.”

      “Being escorted like a toddler for a day of ancient bones and wall after wall of boring paintings.  I think not.”

But, the spark of interest that flared in Sherlock’s eyes said that his refusal was more about his attachment to his current sulk than a lack of interest in the idea.  In the future, perhaps there would be an outing in which all three of them could partake and, perhaps, enjoy.

      “Very well, though rest assured the invitation shall be a standing one.  If you are not to come with us for a lovely day of culture, how shall you be spending your hours?”

      “Oh, I am not to be imprisoned in this hovel?”

Lacking much of Sherlock’s characteristic bite and caustic enunciation.  Perhaps their discussion was having some effect, at least so far as to keeping Sherlock’s mind from settling quickly into familiar and closed-off patterns.

      “Kindly restrain your tendency towards the dramatic, Sherlock.  You are quite free to spend your time according to your own wishes, as you well know.  Gregory and I simply wished for a bit of time where we were assured of both your presence and attention, but you are by no means a prisoner.  Do you expect you shall return home early this evening?”

      “I do not plan on returning at all before tomorrow.  My work has been left to atrophy and that must be rectified.   It will take many hours to reestablish my progress on my desired timeline.”

      “I admit that I predicted such would be the case and, therefore, accepted Gregory’s offer to return here this evening and stay the night.”

      “An evening of debauchery.  How distasteful.”

      “I believe your vocabulary requires improvement.  Distasteful is not synonymous with spectacular, no matter the perversion of the definition.  However, this will permit you a point of contact if you have reason to return home and desire to speak to me.  On any issue.  And… one moment…”

Mycroft withdrew his wallet from his pocket and hoped the deep breath he was taking was being well camouflaged from his brother’s very observant eyes.

      “Take this and please do not forget that this breakfast is not sufficient nutrition to hold you through whenever such time as you choose to return home.”

Sherlock walked forward and extracted the notes from between his brother’s fingers.

      “In truth, the calories I consumed this morning are quite sufficient to fuel my body for a prolonged period.”

      “Ah, then I shall rescind my offer of funds…”

Which were shoved deep into the pockets of Sherlock’s borrowed clothes.

      “However, I must purchase beverages, since they are not provided free-of-charge, owing to the mean-spiritedness of the troglodyte who oversees the operations of the laboratory.”

Mycroft made sure not to smile as it would do nothing but anger his easily-agitated brother.  Perhaps, at least, a pastry would pass Sherlock’s lips before they next shared a meal.

      “Very well.  Please enjoy many warm beverages and regain your lost ground with your experiments.  I shall see you tomorrow evening, I presume, and we can… well, if there are any matters you wish to discuss further with me, I shall be available to do so.  I am committed to seeing you set on whichever path of life will make you happy and successful and shall do whatever I can to help you decide on the nature of that path.  Ah, I do believe I hear the shower becoming free for my use.  Should I expect to see you when I am finished?”

      “No.  I shall be departing now as I first have to obtain acceptable clothing to wear.  I refuse to walk the streets in garments that neither fit nor meet any accepted criteria for good taste.”

      “Already insulting my wardrobe?  You have to shag me before you’re allowed to do that.”

      “Gregory… I am not agreeable to sharing, even if it is with family.”

      “You shall both be immediately deleted from my mind the very second my body is on the other side of the door to this flat.”

      “Well, don’t forget us for too long.  Hate for you to get home and attack Mycroft because you think he’s an intruder.  I’d have to console him for days after he murdered you.”

      “And on that pleasant note, I shall tend to my own ablutions.  Until tomorrow, Sherlock.”

Mycroft made sure to slide his hand along Lestrade’s stomach as he walked past just to hear his brother’s elephantine snort.

      “You going to do your science stuff today?”

      “If you are asking whether I am going to continue to pursue my critical research, then you are correct.”

      “Sounds good.  I’m taking Mycroft out for a bit of fun, but you’re welcome to come along with us, if your experiments can wait awhile.  Roam through some museums, do some stupid things in the gift shops… we’d love to have you.”

      “As I told Mycroft, I shall not be dragged through London wearing a proverbial sailor’s suit and carrying a balloon like a child on holiday.  Mycroft will return your clothing at his earliest convenience.”

      “Ok… well, offer stands if you want it.  We can always do something another day.  I think Mycroft would really like that… when’s the last time you and him did anything together?”

      “Do you have a calendar from the previous decade?”

      “That’s horrible.  Well, I know he’d like to get you out for some time to have a little fun, so we’ll see what we can come up with.”

      “I cannot think of anything more abhorrent.”

      “Great!  I’ll start making a list.”

      “You and Mycroft deserve each other.”

      “Flattery will get you everywhere.  Now, I’m not on duty tonight, so please don’t do anything to warrant getting a thump by my mates, ok?”

      “Your confidence in my behavior is heartwarming.”

      “There’s that flattery, again.  And look… you ever get in a jam, just call me here or at the station, ok?  Sometimes just having a copper on the scene is enough to make whatever problem is smooth out on its own.”

Sherlock scowled at the older man and stole several pieces of bread from the table before leaving the flat without saying another word, but definitely with a withering stare at the man who was grinning back at him and waving.  Once Sherlock was gone, Lestrade began making more tea, then changed his mind and decided to wait to buy some very strong coffee while they were walking.  It was going to be a long day.  A great day, but a long one… the night would make up for it though…

__________

Mycroft Holmes had a lot of uses.  He was a fantastic lover, brilliant to talk to, an unbelievable artist to watch work and, to top it off, the best museum tour guide in the world.  He seemed to know everything and had a way of explaining things that made it all completely understandable, but without making you feel completely stupid in the bargain. 

      “This is the most fun I’ve ever had in one of these places in my life.  Luckily we’ve got a lot to choose from in London, so this can be a regular thing.”

      “I am also quite pleased with our day.  And I could not ask for better company.  You have yet to yawn at my long-windedness and I find my spirits greatly buoyed by that fact.”

      “Look at you fishing for compliments… but, that’s ok.  I’m happy to be a nice fish on your line.  You, Mycroft Holmes, are the smartest man in the land and I am thrilled to benefit from the fruits of your knowledge tree.  Which doesn’t really go with the fish thing, but I sort of got turned around in the middle there.”

      “My tree gladly accepts pairing with your fish, my dear.  It shall be a unique and unparalleled match.  Rather like the two of us.”

Unique and unparalleled… Lestrade had to admit that he liked that very much.  Nothing ordinary about them.  All his friends had spouses or were dating people who were… people.  Good people, great people, really… but not his Mycroft.  Not amazingly clever and incredibly sexy and…

      “Oh, hi Greg… didn’t know you were off today.”

Lestrade turned to the voice and faced one of his fellow PC’s along with his wife and three little tots all of whom seemed more intent on tracing the patterns on the marble floor than actually looking at any of the exhibits.

      “Charlie… fancy meeting you here.  Yeah, got the day free and decided to spend it getting myself cultured.”

      “Well, you can use it.  This is Jean, my wife.  And those are my kids.   No fucking clue what their names are.”

Lestrade smirked as his mate got swatted and drew Mycroft closer for an introduction.

      “Good to meet you, Jean.  This is my partner, Mycroft.”

The raised eyebrows weren’t much of a surprise since Lestrade didn’t go out of his way to announce his sexuality, but at least the end result was a smile and an extended hand for Mycroft to shake.

      “Good to meet you, Mycroft.  Formally, that is.  I see you around doing your arty thing.  At least I never got sent to run you off like the other new lads.  You have no idea how much this one’s reputation rose when he wasn’t holding his bollocks in his hands when he came back to the house after trying to give you the move along.”

Mycroft gave Greg a very intrigued grin and Lestrade knew the heat of the sex he was getting tonight just got turned up quite nicely.

      “What gladdening news.  I am quite honored to have been helpful in securing him recognition for his stalwart constitution and valiant policing of our streets.”

      “No, he’s still considered a prat, but at least a braver prat than the rest of us.  Oh god, Jean, can you chase after them.  They’re heading right for that… whatever it is and it looks expensive.”

      “A funerary urn.  And yes, I am quite certain the museum staff would be quite displeased with its untimely demise.  Shall I assist you, madam?  They seem to have taken separate trajectories…”

Mycroft sprinted off with one very harassed mother close at his heels, leaving the two PC’s to laugh at the chaos.

      “Makes you want a houseful of your own doesn’t it?  Well, I guess that’s not really your thing what with… ok, shutting up now because I already sound stupid.”

      “No, you don’t.  I go for both, actually, men and women, but… I really don’t plan on looking for anyone else, if you know what I mean.  And hey… there’s plenty of tykes out there looking for a good home if it ever came to it.”

Lestrade was surprised how easily he was able to talk about his feelings for Mycroft and what he hoped for their relationship.  Bragging about a quick hookup was one thing, but laying bare his true feelings was something new, but nothing he could say he regretted. 

      “You’re really thinking long-term, aren’t you?”

      “Didn’t think it’d happen to me, actually.  Thought I’d bounce around, maybe one day, one day a long way away, find someone that I’d be ok having something permanent with but… Mycroft’s the best thing going and I’m not letting him go if I can help it.  And I’m sure there’ll be plenty of the lads who’ll try to make that look like a good option.  I’ll deal with those when the time comes.”

      “Wish I could say that wasn’t true, but you’re probably right.  And… look, not that I want to be one of _them_ , but… come over here…”

Lestrade was dragged further from any nearby ears and felt a dart of worry shoot into his spine.

     “Here’s the thing… he seems like a nice fellow.  I mean he’s actually got my brood corralled and they’re actually listening to whatever it is he’s saying about those statues over there but…”

      “But what?”

The dart was now officially an arrow after the very guilty look Lestrade was being given.

      “I’m not saying it’s true or even that I believe it… and it’s not something the boys know about unless they’re local, but there’s rumors… nothing with any proof behind it, mind you, but rumors…”

An arrow to a guided missile…

      “About what specifically?”

      “That’s the thing… nothing really specific, just that he might have some business going on other than that drawing thing.  Now, maybe it’s because he’s… well, _because_ he’s got that drawing thing going on… or because he’s got the posh voice and doesn’t really mix a lot with the others in the area… not that he’s above himself or anything, just doesn’t mix a lot.  My Mum lives in that part of the city and… well, there’s rumors.  I just thought you should know.  But, hey!  You would be the one to know if he was getting up to any other business and since you’re still with him, I guess it’s a load of rubbish and… I’ll pass that along… ok, I’m on with the babbling again, aren’t I?”

On one hand, Lestrade was feeling a burning sickness in his stomach that anyone was talking about Mycroft, but… the other hand wasn’t quite as upset.  Some vague ‘oh, maybe he’s up to something’ tales weren’t the end of the world and… well, Lestrade could see it.  That’s why he adored Mycroft so much – he wasn’t like everyone else, but that could also make people a little curious about what was going on with a posh-talking, genial artist who didn’t do a lot of shopping or buying a coffee and having a chat…  ok, not especially happy, but definitely something he could work on.  Get Mycroft out more and more… let him mingle with people and let them see what he was really like.  All in all, he had to say this revelation was more useful than disturbing.  And none of it seemed to point in the direction of what would _really_ be gossip if people got wind of it.  Lestrade knew Mycroft would probably just collapse in a massive puddle of shame if people found out about his real ‘other business.’

      “No you’re not and… thanks for that.  I’d rather know if people were gossiping than not.  Mycroft’s a bit reserved, so maybe that’s getting people curious about what’s under the bonnet.”

      “Good!  I mean, I’m glad you’re not cracking my jaw.  Like I said, he seems quite nice and people enjoy the work he does… Mum’s neighbor got a drawing done and she’s got it right up there on the mantle because she says it’s the best likeness of her she’s ever had, even considering photographs.  Woman’s got a face like a prune, so your friend there must have blurred some of the lines, but good for him making the customer happy.”

      “He’d probably say he caught her inner beauty.”

      “Oh, that’s a good one.  And, he’d be right, too, real nice woman.  Helped Mum out when she had a problem with her knee.  Real nice person, so shame on me for saying nasty things.  And here comes my penalty.  Two of them doing the ‘gotta go’ dance and one giving the ‘already went’ grin.  So, I’ll pass the good word around about your boyfriend, do people even say that anymore?, and maybe we’ll see you two around sometime.  Roger brings his partner to the drinks nights and whatnot, so maybe we’ll see you there?  Show off your better half off to all the poor singles?”

That wasn’t actually a bad idea.  Mycroft would captivate all the luckless bastards.  Luckless being anyone who didn’t have a Mycroft of their own.

      “That might happen.  Let’s see how our schedules work.  And, looks like you’re being glared at, you procreator.  Be off with you and tend to your offspring.  And the wife, I think she needs a rose or two.”

      “One or two dozen.  She was supposed to be having a girl’s day, but I whined so much she came along with us on this grand educational trip.  Oh well, something you’ll learn all about, I suspect.”

      “Except with Mycroft, it’ll be paintbrushes instead of roses.”

      “At least when you’re carrying them home, it’s not like carting a big sign around your neck that says ‘I fucked up.’  See you tomorrow?”

      “Yeah, back on days.”

Lestrade and his colleague strolled over to meet the rest of the group and, after a round of handshakes and goodbyes, looped his arm in Mycroft’s and started in the direction of a part of the museum they had yet to visit.

      “And did you have an enjoyable conversation, my dear?”

      “Actually, yes.  Charlie’s a good chap.  Friendly, honest, hard-working and not likely to give your arse a snap with a towel if he catches you changing in the locker area.”

      “My, that _is_ a ringing endorsement.”

      “None better.  And, may I just say, that your child wrangling skills are top-notch.  Really, bravo for shepherding those little ones.  And keeping them occupied.  Looked like quite the teacher instructing your class.”

      “I do admit that I indulged myself just a soupcon and imparted some of my trivial knowledge to their little ears.  They were especially enamored about the tales concerning beheadings and disembowelments.  It is always the young that are the most bloodthirsty, Gregory.  You would be well-advised to remember that.”

      “Oh, I can assure you that’s not ever leaving my head.  So, finish up here, then maybe a quick coffee before we continue on?”

      “That will be your fourth cup since we departed your flat… are you perhaps beginning to, as they say, lose your steam?”

Of course not… and even if he was, Lestrade was in no way prepared to confess to it.

      “Nah, it’s just that time of day when I need a little boost.  Believe me, I don’t want to cut _any_ of this short.”

      “Then another promenade is most certainly in order.  Following the completion of our tour and a small respite for rejuvenation, what shall be our diversion?”

      “Whatever you’d like.  I’m all for meandering and seeing what we run into.”

      “Putting ourselves in the hands of the fates… a very cavalier approach, but one I greatly appreciate.”

      “Then I am happy to be appreciated.”

      “And I hope to always demonstrate my appreciation of you.  Please do remind me if I have grown lax and mete out whatever punishment you deem fitting.”

      “Well, that’s a lot of responsibility, but I’ll do my best to be both firm but fair.”

      “You are most certainly firm, my dearest Gregory… and quite the fairest in the land.”

      “Shut it, you’re making me blush.”

      “And I shall bask in the heat of your skin.”

      “There better not be any naked statues where we’re going or I may start to get unsavory ideas.”

      “Oh, then we should detour in this direction.  There is, I believe, a cornucopia of nudity on display.”

      “You’ll get me thrown right out for creating a public display.”

      “Nonsense, I shall charge a small viewing fee and donate a portion of the proceedings to the museum’s operating budget.  I am certain they will be quite grateful for the support.”

      “Ok then, I’ll make sure to give them all a good show.”

      “That is something of which I have no doubt.”

__________

A long evening of Lestrade’s cavalier approach to sightseeing finally brought the two men back to the flat, where two glasses of passable scotch were poured out for Lestrade and Mycroft to enjoy while winding down before bed.

      “Now that was the way to spend a day.  Lots to fun and now a nice bit of scotch to relax.  This is the life.  If it wasn’t so late, I’d say we could get a film started and have a bit of a cuddle on the couch while we watched it.”

      “I am agreeable to making that the focus of our next rendezvous, if that meets with your approval.  I would enjoy an evening spent quietly watching a quality film; it has been a long time since I have been able to indulge myself in such a fashion.  I do hope you appreciate classic cinema.”

      “Old films?  Sure!  A lot of them are great.  And I like the new stuff, too.  Kind of films you don’t have to use your brain enjoy.  Just shut off the thinking and laugh or cheer as things are blown up.”

      “Hmmm… I must admit to little experience with those particular genres, but I am never opposed to expanding my horizons.  That is a particular quality unique to you, Gregory… it is rare I feel the urge to actually act on a desire to broaden my experiences, yet you inspire me in that direction so easily.”

Which would make Lestrade’s plan for making Mycroft less of a subject for gossip and speculation for more easy to accomplish.

      “It’s a date, then.  There’s a little video place not far from where you are and we can browse to find something we both want to see.  Pick up some take-away, rent a good video… maybe lay in a little of that cheap wine we both like… I’ll even put a few candles around the place and make it really romantic.”

      “Such a scintillating man you are.  I feel an unseemly pride in having you at my side and an even more unseemly smugness that others do not.  I abandon utterly my humble nature for your sake, Gregory; I hope you are satisfied with the havoc you wreak upon me.”

How one man could have such a devilish expression on his sweet and angelic face was a mystery that Lestrade had no intention of trying to solve.  He liked that devilish smile far too much…

      “Quite satisfied, actually.  And the more havoc I wreak the better.  Happy as I can be to wreak all over the place.”

      “I adore that we are of such a like mind for the broadest and most diverse body of issues.”

      “Great minds think alike?”

      “Oh very good.  Very good, indeed.  And… oh heavens, what a mighty yawn.  I believe I caught sight of your tonsils.  Is your fatigue becoming problematic?”

      “Not yet.  Soon though, that much I’ll admit.   If you want to you can sleep in.  No reason for you to get up when I do.”

      “Ah, but who would prepare breakfast while you shower?”

      “I do enjoy your cooking…”

      “And I should likely also make an early start to my day.  I cannot remember a pleasant day that did not find me on my little island and I am afraid to further provoke the gods of fortune with a tardy start to my toil.”

Lestrade knew Mycroft loved his art and had no hesitation about selling his pieces, but there was a question that had been burbling in his mind for awhile now.  That they’d brought it up this morning made it a good time to see if he could get an answer.

      “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask… is there a reason you’re not haranguing the gallery owners into showing your work?  If you got some exposure, your paintings would be flying off their walls like they’d grown wings.”

Mycroft set down his scotch and steepled his fingers in front of his face, eyes narrowed as he thought about the question.

      “In truth, the reason is nothing more consequential than a worry that the time it would require to properly promote my work would unacceptably reduce the amount of time devoted to earning our keep and providing the companionship that Sherlock despises, but clings to at the most unpredictable of times.  I have not explored the sorts of gatherings and events that might allow me to catch the eye of an interested party, and that, too, is simply a fault of my own worries.  Worries that I shall not fit into the niche I am supposed to occupy and impair any future attempts to grow my career once Sherlock is established in his own.  One could say I am playing a long game, of which the most forceful moves are still to come, but… I told Sherlock that I would be more proactive in improving our standard of living, so perhaps the time has come for those more forceful moves to be set in motion.  I shall not lie, Gregory… there is a measure of hesitation on my part for this.  There is a comfort, a freedom, in producing my work for no other eyes but my own and Sherlock’s.  And now, joyfully, yours.  My true work, I mean.  The work that represents the entirety of my heart and mind.  To expose it to public scrutiny… though the rewards may be great, the slights and injuries may be _as_ great.  I do not consider myself a cowardly man in any aspect of my life save this one.  But, I shall have to conquer that rapidly if I am to better care for my brother.”

Lestrade thought about it and had to agree that he’d be more than hesitant undertaking what Mycroft would have to do to get his pieces in front of buyers and… rushing through his mind were all of the comments he heard at the galleries they’d walked through, more than one or two being cutting in nature.  But if that was the way it was in the art world, then that was what they would have to face.  And he did mean _they_ … if Mycroft got the recognition he deserved, Lestrade had full intention of being beside him for it and doing what he could to keep Mycroft’s ears away from those cutting remarks.  Not that Mycroft really needed his help; he’d do brilliantly on his own handling the good and the bad, but why handle the bad if there was someone in his corner more than willing to do the job.

      “Well, it’s not pressing… you’re not on the street, like you said, and until we get Sherlock’s current situation sorted out, there’s no use starting up something new and time-consuming.  But, when the time comes, I’ll do whatever I can to help, you know that, right?  Even if it’s just carrying canvases around on my back or dropping off whatever one drops off at galleries to say ‘Hi!  I’m Mycroft Holmes, sell my fucking work you bastard.’  Whenever you’re ready, I’m ready.  I’ll even get my own scarf in preparation.  Nice burgundy or a big stripey job that really makes a statement.”

      “And you shall be stunning in it.  We will be the talk of the art world – the couple so handsome one cannot drag one’s eyes from our persons to take in the surrounding pieces on display.”

      “Perfect!  I’ll get the crime scene photographer to drop by and take some photos of us.  He’ll be excited to actually shoot some live people instead of a bunch of dead ones.”

      “I would only ask that you allow me sufficient notice so that I may properly style my hair.”

      “Finger-raked sexy works for me.”

      “Then that is what you shall have.  Along with any other action of grooming that you deem appealing.”

      “I’d love to watch you shave.”

Mycroft was somewhat startled by the statement, but leaned forward to press the issue further.

      “Truly?”

      “Yeah.  Actually, I sort of have a little fantasy about that.  You, surrounded by the steam from a shower, towel around your waist, all that lovely chest hair glistening with tiny drops of moisture and you running a razor slowly over your face and neck…”

It was one thing to be considered desirable when one was engaged in the act of sex itself, but to be considered sexually appealing while engaged in a simple, domestic scene… was unexpectedly, but highly, arousing.  Mycroft again had to thank his Gregory for surprising him in the most wonderful ways.

      “Hmmm… the next morning we can spend together at our leisure, I see no reason why you cannot indulge your little fantasy.”

      “You know, it doesn’t end with you seducing me with the motion of those long, luscious hands, do you?”

      “Are my long, luscious hands pressed into service for some other activity, perhaps?”

      “Hands are involved, yes.”

      “Then we shall make this a priority.”

      “Putting that on my list right now.”

       “Along with finally getting some rest?  You are near to dropping, my dear.”

      “Ok, so I’m fading faster than I thought.  You’ll be gentle with me before we actually sleep, right?  No acrobatics and high-wire performances?”

Mycroft rose from his spot on the sofa, plucked the glass from Lestrade’s fingers and set them on the small sofa table before guiding the PC up from his chair.

      “I shall be quite gentle, my Gregory.  And quite thorough.  You need simply to lay back and enjoy yourself.”

      “I can do that.”

      “I applaud, as always, your commitment to positive thinking.”


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft finished setting up his work area and drew in a few deep breaths of morning air.  Good air, too. Crisp and clean with little of the city’s normal perfume that would soon rise to alter the aroma as the traffic increased, the hustle became bustle and the world came alive.  What a wonderful, positively delightful morning.  Waking warm in the arms of someone about whom you cared deeply, then taking care of the little things to see him happily on his way.  There was feeling of power from that… being the one to manage another person so that they left in better straights because of your actions.  And that was in addition to the immeasurable feeling of power from knowing the smallest caress of your fingers could set that person alight with a blazing passion that could only be quenched by more of your touch.

Gregory Lestrade was an unimaginable boon given by the universal powers for reasons he could never fathom, but would be forever thankful.   The most wondrous aspect of his great gift was that _he_ was perceived as a gift, also.  Mycroft was still reeling from the presentation of the small key that he found himself absentmindedly touching in his pocket when his mind wandered towards the one who had bestowed it.  He would have to take care, though…  It would be too easy, far too easy to abuse this show of trust and affection.  To find himself indulging in the occasional hot shower or moment of warmth with a cup of tea.  To use nights when his precious Gregory was working to set up an easel and lose himself in his painting.  Well, drawing, for the time being.  The extra allowance he would be providing Sherlock would have to come from somewhere and the easiest place was from the funds he used to purchase his paints.  But that was a minor matter.  He could still indulge with pencil and chalk and charcoal and to spend a comfortable night in Gregory’s flat working on his pieces… it would be too easy to make the activity a habit.  And that was not something he could allow.

Though his PC would be most pleased if he did, of that there was little doubt.  His dear constable would be overjoyed to know he made the flat a second home and used it regularly and that added to the already significant temptation.  To make that his second home… perhaps, someday, his primary home.  And that was not permissible.  He had not earned that right and would not take what was not deserved.  Gregory did not see it from this perspective, but that was right and proper for he was a kind and caring man.  However, Mycroft would never take advantage.  He would, of course, make use of the space and, now and again, his lover would return home to find him working on a piece and… they would pass some time as they had previously.  Quiet, restful, but energizing and inspiring.  In his own home, Gregory could indulge in his own pursuits, so the time could be more equitably shared and… it would be glorious.  The sheer domesticity of the idea was enough to make Mycroft’s toes curl with pleasure.   His partner reading a book, him working on a piece… soft music playing in the background… and Gregory would not mind if they spoke not a single word the entire night.  He understood… how rare and special that was.   And he _appreciated_ , a rarer thing, still.

So, he would earn the right to the quiet nights.  To the shared hours and the comfort, both physical and emotional, those nights would provide.  As difficult as it was to admit, Sherlock’s self-centered rants had taken on a fresh light and one to which he could not blind himself.  It would not do… it would not do at all to rely upon Gregory’s generosity when he could not reciprocate.  Not that his lover had made any disparaging comments about his flat or the little he could offer for hospitality and Mycroft was certain he felt no discomfort when they spent time in the tiny cellar room, but Mycroft wished he could provide more.  Contribute more to their relationship besides companionship.  Sherlock… he _could_ give more to their situation if he so chose, but Gregory had already given everything, including a slice of his honor and there was no more that could be asked.  It was decided; as soon as Sherlock’s situation could be sorted out, he would begin to make changes.  This was not his original timetable, not his original plan, but one must be flexible to weather a dynamic world, and he would flex accordingly.  And, the size of the ‘and’ being that of a mountain, he would not be alone in his struggle.  Gregory would support him fully, though Sherlock would continue to throw rocks, so he would not undertake his changes without a kind word in his ear when his energies began to flag.

With an extra measure of shine to his smile, real and not contrived, Mycroft began to beckon patrons of his craft to exchange their funds for his work.  It would be a good day.  He would work and pass the hours with his art and casual conversation with his customers, returning home for perhaps a discussion with his brother about the current set of troubles or, more likely, a simple evening with his radio and the slow depletion of the last of his paints.  There was enough to bring one additional canvas to life and this one he would savor, allowing it to slowly grow over time.  Work a little every night, using each day’s experience as an inspiration for the new strokes he would make.  Normally, he preferred to work for hours at a time, retreating into his soul and letting it guide his hand, but this would be different.  New.  A challenge, if looked at in the proper fashion… and he did dearly love a challenge…

__________

He was exhausted.  Completely exhausted despite a good night’s sleep.  A great night’s sleep, actually.  Already it was getting hard to think about sleeping without Mycroft in the bed with him, because it was fantastic.  Absolutely fucking fantastic even if all they did was curl together and sleep.  Not that they’d done that last night.  Or this morning and that was also fantastic.  Slow, gentle lovemaking to end their day and fast and furious to get the new one started.  Then it was a perfect morning of breakfast with someone who made his day feel like a day.  Who gave him a proper start to it and made leaving seem eventful, not just his usual rolling out of the door wiping toast crumbs off of his chin.  What would it be like to start every day like that?  Or end it like they did last night?   A relaxing evening, no fireworks or party hats, and an easy morning where they moved just like a team, tidying up after breakfast and getting each other off to work.  It would be brilliant.  That’s what it’d be – brilliant.

But Mycroft would not be pleased if has asked him to move in.  Not pleased at all.  Right at this point it’d look like a pity offer.  They needed more water under the bridge, more little things that made sharing a home seem the natural decision.  That it wasn’t about his own urge to give his artist a comfortable, safe place to live and keep food in his mouth… it was about _more_ than that.  It was about building something that was special.  Something not everyone had.  Something that would make both their lives better than they were now.  Something that would last and just get better and better with time.  Ok, now it was time to turn off his brain.  Very much time to turn off the brain before he riled himself up to the point where he did something stupid and drove Mycroft away.  Turn the channel on the brain until, at least, they got Sherlock’s situation under control.  Then and only then he could take a peek at that bit of programming once in awhile.  But… there was no reason he couldn’t start laying down some groundwork in the meantime…

First off, he needed to get Mycroft out and about and shake off some of the curiosity that surrounded him.  Maybe it wasn’t nice, but he did ask around a bit and people _did_ wonder about the quiet artist.  Nothing bad, thank god, but he made people wonder, so they’d work on that, not that Mycroft would ever know.  And… that should probably include his wanker brother.  Actually, his lovely daydream needed to be edited at some point and bits of Sherlock cut in because Mycroft would never abandon his brother, even for someone who… cared for him.  Something would have to be worked out but that was the horizon.  The nice happy horizon that sat right there in your vision, but stayed out of your way as you went about the day.  Get the stupid tosser out of trouble, get his feet on the right road and when that was done… see what happened.  But Sherlock and Mycroft were definitely one of those two-for-one deals and he couldn’t ever forget that.

Second… help Mycroft with whatever he wanted to do with his career.  He’d been honest about that – whatever it took, he’d do.  It’d be fun, actually, getting to put his fingers in that world.  He’d never be the artistic type or have personality to really be part of that scene, but he didn’t need to.  He was there to support Mycroft in whatever he wanted to do and that was what he was going to do.  It might not always be easy, since his own career was time consuming and exhausting, but it was enough, he knew, just to show willing.  Mycroft wouldn’t expect him to be there to hold his hand all the time and knew it wasn’t possible anyway.  And his poor man would get dragged into the cop’s life, as well, and that was its own kettle of fish.  The horrible hours, the terrible things you saw that burned a brand on you… Mycroft would have to deal with that, but no one could say his artist was naïve when it came to the harsh reality of the world.  For this one issue, it would be a handy thing.

But that thing… _that_ handy thing… that was a bridge they’d have to cross.  He didn’t want to admit it, but it was true that one of the reasons he wanted Mycroft in his home was so he didn’t have a need to… engage in his other activities.  God, that still hurt to think about.  No, hurt was the wrong word – it felt like swallowing a big jug of bleach and chasing it with a few handfuls of roofing nails.  It killed him to think of Mycroft suffering like that, but he wasn’t so noble to try and fool himself that it wasn’t for other reasons, too.  Jealousy… no one, _no one_ , was allowed to touch his artist but him.  Mycroft was his and that was the end of the story.  Insecurity… were they better?  Was he enough?  Mycroft probably had to do all sorts of things and he was fairly standard in his likes so did Mycroft get bored and want something more exciting?  Betrayal… Mycroft was _his_ and agreed to that so anything he did, no matter why, was a fucking betrayal.  Infidelity.  Cheating.  And that made him angry.  Furious, really.  Filled him with a nasty, cold fire of a rage that he had to make sure didn’t rise up at night or he’d be awake for hours trying to force it back down.   But it was a protective rage, too.  The thought, just the _thought_ of Mycroft doing something he didn’t want to do, would _never_ ask for, hated, despised... it put his stomach in knots.  And winter was coming.  The difficult months, Mycroft had called them.  Well, not this year.  No, it wasn’t going to happen.  This would be something he’d have to bring up at some point and it wouldn’t be a talk he’d let go any way but one.

      “Greg?  You going to stand there all day or are you actually going to do what the people pay you for?”

Right.  Enough indulging in his own crazy thoughts.  They’d keep.  They’d sit and patiently wait for him to have some real time to turn them over and back again.  Right now, though, he needed to make a dent in whatever problems chose today to plague the city.  Maybe, if he got lucky, it’d be a day that saw him going home at a reasonable time and that meant he could stop by Mycroft’s for a visit.  And if Sherlock wasn’t home, it could be a long and extremely personal visit.  That sounded like a very good thing right now…

__________

Mycroft adored his Gregory’s choice of careers.  It was absolutely perfect for him, a fine choice to demonstrate the qualities that made him the exceptional man Mycroft knew him to be.  However, his adoration did not quite extend so far as to embrace the hours necessary to properly do the job of policing the city.  It had been days since they had seen each other for more than a few shared words and a kiss of greeting.  Gregory was working himself near to dissolution, but it was necessary for what must be done and to secure the advancement he hoped one day to experience.  And it would not last, of that he had been assured.  The ways of the criminal element were described by both peaks and valleys of activity and they were now witnessing a peak.  It, however, added fuel to Mycroft’s fire to bring his own life into a pattern more appropriate for someone who might someday be in a position to welcome the PC home every night, even if a scant few hours of rest was the extent of their time together.  How lovely it would be if he was, this very morning, seeing him off to again begin his day…

So lost was he in his thoughts that Mycroft scarcely noticed Sherlock’s arrival in their flat, but once he did his entire being went on high alert.  Something was dreadfully wrong… and Sherlock had not been home that night.

      “Sherlock!  What has happened?  Come… come and sit.”

His brother was pale and there was a shift in his posture that Mycroft knew indicated a great distress. Most unsettling was that Sherlock refused to meet his eye… 

      “Are you hurt?  Unwell?  Sherlock, please tell me what is disturbing you so I might help you.”

And still Sherlock would not meet his eye.  It was only then that Mycroft took in Sherlock’s clothing, which was rumpled, and the tiny speck of dried blood at the corner of his mouth.  A small tug on his brother’s sleeve guided Sherlock to the bed and a light press encouraged Sherlock to sit, with Mycroft taking position next to him.

      “Sherlock… please.  Speak to me.  I am very concerned about you.  _Very_ concerned…”

Slowly and almost confusedly, Sherlock blinked his eyes several times as if trying to clear away the vestiges of a vision.  He turned his head very slightly in Mycroft’s direction and blinked a few more times before speaking.

      “How?  How do you do it?”

There was a terrifying childlike tone to Sherlock’s voice and Mycroft did something he had not done since Sherlock _was_ a child – reached out and clasped his brother’s hand, covering it with both of his own.

      “Do what, Sherlock?”

Although Mycroft already had a horrifying suspicion.

      “It… it should not be difficult.”

Mycroft gripped his brother’s hand more tightly and forced down the surge of emotion that threatened to undo him completely.

      “No, it should not.  But it is, nonetheless.  Talk to me, Sherlock… why would you… you despise me for this very thing…”

The slow crawl of fear into his brother’s eyes made Mycroft very afraid of the answer.

      “You… neither you nor your pet policeman asked from where I obtained the money for the drugs I purchased.  In truth, I paid nothing… I was only to sell what I was given and I… I would be given a portion of the profits.”

No, they had not questioned.  Now his brother’s fear was understandable. 

      “Since no drugs were sold, moneys were lost.”

      “A great deal of money.”

      “But surely… this cannot be uncommon?  You cannot be held responsible…”

      “I can.  I am.  Further, it is known my charge was solely for possession, which has engendered a great deal of _curiosity_ as to what transpired that night.  There will be no leniency for this, not that I would have expected any in the first place.”

This was not what Mycroft had expected.  Sherlock was correct… in the haze of the making sense of his brother’s actions, he had ignored the details.  Not seen the item that should have most piqued his curiosity.  He had failed his brother yet another time.

      “You are expected to repay the debt.”

      “Principal and interest that will be added to the sum as I fail to pay.”

      “When did you learn of this?  I have not noticed…”

      “Yesterday.  After my last lecture.  I… I did not know what to do.”

Such despair… the utter despair in Sherlock’s voice threatened to crush Mycroft’s heart to dust.

      “Why did you not come to me?  Sherlock, this is not something you should have to bear alone and… Gregory!  We must speak with Gregory!”

      “NO!”

Sherlock nearly launched himself off the bed and it was only that Mycroft had him anchored that he did not succeed.

      “You cannot divulge this to him!  You are not unaware of the fate of those who involve the police in matters such as these. As it is, I owe them money.  I would rather not owe them my life, as well.”

      “We can simply seek his advice.  Use his knowledge to prepare a strategy, to uncover options…”

      “You will not tell him, Mycroft.  I shall not give him further reason to look down upon me.  You must promise me this.   You must.”

      “Sherlock, this is very serious and we will require all assistance we can acquire…”

      “Promise me, Mycroft.  I… I must rectify this myself and it is already… I… promise me or I shall leave and you will not be able to find me.”

And he would.  Sherlock’s normal personality was a contrary one, but with state of agitation, he would not hesitate to make a decision that was foolish and self-harming.   Witness what he had already done…

      “I shall promise to keep this our secret until such time as it is no longer feasible.  Tell me, though, what is the size of your debt?  Perhaps something can be arranged…”

Sherlock let a figure drop from his lips and Mycroft could not contain his groan of defeat.

      “I… so much?”

      “For this week.  Next week it shall be higher.  I walked all night trying to think… to _think_ … and I could see no solution.  Not in the time I have with which to work.  I could only devise of one way to earn such a sum… and… it was not so difficult to find someone willing…”

What little composure Sherlock had regained vanished and he was again the very frightened little boy who had first walked into the flat.  Mycroft raised a hand and stroked his brother’s cheek to give what measure of comfort he could.  Never… his brother should never have even thought to turn to such a solution.  Never had reason to consider it an option.  At every juncture he found new reasons to hate himself for what he had done to damage them both.

      “It seems a practical idea, doesn’t it?  A simple one, at that.  A profitable transaction for such a meaningless action.  Or so it appears… until you realize that it is neither simple nor meaningless.  Until you are scarcely able to breathe because the shame that fills your body is almost a solid thing blocking your lungs from drawing air and your heart from beating.  But you can cry… it is… it is not uncommon for certain acts make your eyes water a bit so they do not know these tears are ones of misery.  Of agony from the force of the hatred you feel for yourself.  And the scraps of paper you are given in trade seem so poor a payment for the amount of your soul you have felt ripped from your chest.  It is a very practical idea… in theory.  And, as with most theory, it fails in practice.  Tell me… did you… are you hurt in any manner?”

Sherlock shook his head, but this time was able to fix his brother with a distraught, but highly curious look.

      “How can you do this?  For so long?  I… I cannot bear the thought of ever… _ever_ touching someone like that again, let alone… how have you been able to survive this?  I must know.  I _must_ know!”

Mycroft stared at his brother’s shiny, feverish eyes and wondered if it actually should be him that vanished, never to return.  He had taken so much from Sherlock because of his arrogant… and unclean… behaviors. 

      “I do it because I must.  I have never lied to you about that, Sherlock; I would not have my selfish nature cause you more suffering than you already endure.  I keep that in my mind as I let it wander away from the depravity in which I engage.  It is… it is best if I let it wander sometimes when what I am being paid for is... unusually troubling.  But, I know well that what I commit brings you benefit and that is enough.  I have made my choices and willingly pay the price for them because you enjoy a better life because of them.  However, and listen well to me in this… do not equate _this_ with what such acts _can_ mean.  When you share them with someone for whom your heart yearns, there is nothing more beautiful.  I had long forgotten that until I met Gregory and I shall tell you that our intimate time is something I crave.  I long to be with him, to feel his touch on my skin and, in return, to give to him every pleasure I possibly can provide.  Do not confuse sex with love, Sherlock.  I hope with all my heart that you learn this for yourself someday.  Find someone who proves to you that what you experienced this past night is not the way it must be.  It can be joyful, truly joyful, when you share your affections with the other half of your heart.”

This look was as confused as the previous, but also… astonished.

      “You love him.”

      “Perhaps.  Yes.  I refuse to consider the issue until I am worthy to do so.  And that is why you must not attempt this again, Sherlock.  You must not, ever, sully yourself so you feel unworthy of a good person’s affection for you.  So you feel you, yourself, are not a person of worth.  I… that is no longer an option for me, but it need not be the case for you.”

Sherlock stared at his brother and felt battered by the storm of emotions inside him, which he fought to keep off of his face.  It was too much… far too much for him to process.

      “Then what do I do?  I…”

Sherlock reached into his pocket and drew out the money his encounter had earned him.

      “I cannot ignore _this_.”

Mycroft winced at the crumpled notes in Sherlock’s hand.  And tried to pay no heed to the stab of jealousy he felt seeing the amount… there was great value in being young and beautiful.

      “No, but _I_ …”

He could not.  But there really was no choice, was there?  They had no mechanism to gather the necessary funds and Sherlock still had to make his appearance in court… which was another reason they could not involve Gregory.  He would insist they pursue the issue and that would return Sherlock to his former danger of receiving a more serious charge.  And his brother was correct… there was a strong possibility that there would be some form of retribution if the police became involved.  He could not allow Sherlock to abuse himself again.  It simply would not happen, not while he lived and breathed.  He was used to the abuse.  He deserved it, for all the ills he had caused.  He wasn’t a good person, a worthy person – he knew that.  He _never_ forgot that fundamental truth, so it was of no consequence if he behaved as an unworthy person and permitted himself to be used as a toy for another’s amusement.  And some amusements paid very, very well…

      “I shall take responsibility for this.  Do not burden yourself with any further worry.”

      “No.  This is of my doing and I shall remedy…”

      “Absolutely not.  You are far too important to me, Sherlock and I shall not let you become what I am.  I know you do not wish to hear these words, however, I love you, brother.   I have loved you since I first laid my eyes on you in your crib.  Your welfare is mine to secure and I will not, not for a single moment, allow that to be compromised.  You shall not endure this stain upon your honor.  For my part… as you have often remarked, I no longer possess any honor, so it is an easy thing for me to take this weight from your shoulders.”

      “I… I will not ask this of you, Mycroft.”

      “You are not.  I am simply informing you as to what I _am_ going to do.”

      “No… you must not.  What about Lestrade?  You cannot say in one breath you care for him, then do this.”

It was immaterial.  He knew now, he saw so clearly that he had been foolish to imagine he could make a life with someone such as Gregory.  How long would it be until his filth contaminated his beloved constable as it had his brother?  No… he would not allow Sherlock to further erode his integrity and he would no longer shame Gregory with his vile and toxic presence.  For what he would have to do, no one should ever be soiled besides him.  It was the most important gift he could give his lover .  And his last.

      “As I have stated, this is now my concern and you must worry no more about it.  I can… it is possible I can raise that sum before a week is out although… you cannot, you _cannot_ , go to Gregory.  In this, I now find myself to be of like mind with you.”

      “What shall you tell him when you see him next?  How will you keep this secret?  It will eat you like an acid and you will not be able to keep him ignorant of your actions.”

There would be no next visit.  Or, if there was, the deed would be done and he would have nothing more to suffer but his Gregory’s disappointment and scorn.

      “I do not believe that will be a problem.  Now, I ask you again… are you hurt?  I shall not inquire for details unless you need… assistance of any form.”

He hated, loathed, the look of shame on Sherlock’s face.  It had no place there.  His fault… it was his fault that his brother felt such indignity.

      “No.  There was nothing… his desires were simple.”

      “His?  I have never pried, but… is that your taste?”

      “I… I do not know.  I have not spared it much thought… or acted upon any urges.”

This bloom of heat on his brother’s cheeks was not shame.  It was worse… the loss of innocence.  Another question answered and another nail for his crucifixion.  Sherlock’s first explorations should never have been tainted in such a horrifying manner.  This was another sin he must bear, denying his brother that one simple, special moment.

      “It is no matter.  One day, it shall become clear to you and you shall enjoy that portion of your life with the person who brought you clarity.  Now… you should shower.  I shall prepare something hot for you to eat and then we can speak further on any matter you choose.  Or simply indulge in the silence with a bit of reading.  Go ahead, Sherlock.  And know… know that I do not love you any less for what you have done.  For _anything_ you have done.  And I never will.”

Sherlock only nodded and retreated to the small bathroom as quickly as his feet could take him.  He would be in there a long time, Mycroft knew.  He had, the first time.  Spent what seemed like hours trying to get the rot off of his skin.  But this would give him time to plan.  Time to clear his own head and begin to prepare himself for what would come.   A week… Mycroft performed a few mental calculations and it could be possible.  It would have to be… no matter the difficulty.

So, he would see Sherlock fed and cared for today.  His own work was of no consequence at this point.  Then… he would begin tonight.  There could be no delay, however… despite his convictions, it _would_ have been welcome to see his Gregory one final time.

__________

Ok, now he was getting worried.  No, that was untrue.  He’d _been_ worried, now he was just going out of his mind.  This was the third day that Mycroft hadn’t been in his spot and one day he’d not been able to stop by so… this could be four days!  And no one was home at night, although he asked the lovely landlady and they hadn’t given any notice of moving out.  And she had spotted Sherlock coming and going, albeit as irregularly as he normally did.  This didn’t make sense.  Not a bit.  If Mycroft had to go somewhere he would have said something.  If there was trouble, he also would have said something.  And… _he_ hadn’t done anything to cause a problem.  Had he?  He couldn’t have, he’d barely seen Mycroft lately.  Unless _that_ was the problem.  Had he been too neglectful?  He’d barely had a moment to piss, let alone spend time with another person, but he could have done something.  Maybe.  He’d tried to stop by when he could, thought it hadn’t amounted to much time, he had to admit that.  But Mycroft would have said something.  Wouldn’t just have dropped him like a hot coal.  That wasn’t who he was.  His artist would have told him to his face that there was something wrong.  Given him a chance to fix things.  Then what was going on?  And why wasn’t Mycroft working?  That was really bothering him.  Breaking up was one thing, but Mycroft couldn’t afford to avoid working just to keep from running into each other.  It just wasn’t possible, so there had to be something, something terribly wrong.

Lestrade felt every minute of his duty shift cutting into his flesh and, though he should stay late to finish some paperwork, left the minute his shift ended and raced to Mycroft’s flat.  Only to find it dark.  A quick knock on the front door and the flash of his smile at his luck the Mrs. of the house answered and he was allowed to go downstairs to retrieve the imaginary item he’d left behind.  It didn’t matter that Mycroft had yet to get another key made to give him because the lock was virtually nonexistent and within seconds he was inside to find… nothing.  Nothing out of the ordinary, that is.  It looked as it always did, though… less orderly.  More untidy and disorganized.  And in the corner were Mycroft’s supplies.  What was odd was that they were… not right.  He’d seen them in that spot before and there was a way they looked when Mycroft dropped them off at the end of the day.  This wasn’t that look.  This was more careful, like each item had been specifically placed and the whole package was… small.  As if it had been arranged to take up as little space as possible.  To keep it out of the way.

Finding nothing to answer his questions, Lestrade made his way around the neighborhood, chatting with the locals and gaining no information as to Mycroft’ situation, until he finally decided to go home and think.  Something had to be wrong, _had_ to be wrong, but no one seemed to have any idea about it.  When he found Mycroft, he would make sure, make _damned_ sure, that he got to know every single person in his neighborhood so that if anything ever happened again, there would be people to notice and give information.

Lestrade rounded the corner to his own building and drew up short seeing the lights on in his flat.  Running the rest of the way, he burst into the building and then into his own space sending up prayers that he’d see Mycroft sitting inside, but got an even greater shock seeing Sherlock sitting at his kitchen table, instead.  And it wasn’t a Sherlock he had ever seen before.  This Sherlock looked completely unraveled… but spoke before he could ask why.

      “I need your help, Lestrade.  Mycroft needs your help.   It has been four days and he has not returned home.  I fear… I fear for his safety.  Please, for his sake, you must help me.”

Lestrade swallowed down the lump in his throat and took a seat across from Sherlock, trying and mostly failing to keep calm.

      “Ok… I’m listening.  Start from the beginning.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you all so much for your kind words and support for this story. I means a great deal to me!

Lestrade listened to the water in his shower and let it lull his mind into some sense of calm.  Sherlock had poured out everything… every detail no matter how small or humiliating or painful.  When he started he was nearly spitting out the words, as if he was almost baiting Lestrade into anger and when he realized it wasn’t going to happen, began to speak in a frantic, nearly panicked mode that slowly dissolved into a desperation that began to tear Lestrade’s heart to shreds.  And his eyes… Lestrade had seen the look in Sherlock’s eyes far too many times in his career.  It was the look of someone who had suffered and couldn’t lose the feeling that what had hurt them was waiting close by to pay them another visit.

Now that he had some time to think, he realized he didn’t even know where to begin sorting out his feelings.  There was anger, lots of anger.  Anger at Sherlock for getting himself into this mess, anger at Mycroft for trying to handle something so serious without asking for his help, anger at himself for not thinking the situation through at the beginning and predicting this outcome.  Then it was the sorrow for Sherlock’s trying to follow his brother’s footsteps and how horribly that had impacted the boy.  The sorrow for the broken heart he knew Mycroft had suffered, because his own had shattered listening to Sherlock tell his story.  And he couldn’t miss the rage boiling inside him knowing that Mycroft was out there letting his body be used by someone other than him, which alternated with a cold fear of what his lover was experiencing that kept him from wanting to or actually prevented him from making contact with Sherlock for four days.

 _His_ Mycroft was out there trying to save the brother he loved so dearly the only way he thought he could and harming himself, body and soul, every moment he stood on the auction block for the highest bidder to win.  No… he couldn’t let that image settle into his mind or he’d go mad.  Why couldn’t Mycroft come to him?  He’d heard Sherlock’s arguments and there was some merit to them, but it didn’t matter!  He could have thought of something to do off the record, even if was gather up some of the lads he knew would love a good fists and boots dustup with the rabble they weren’t allowed to so much as poke while in uniform.  When was that stupid artist going to get it through his head that he didn’t have to carry the world on his shoulders!  Item number one on his new list of priorities… kick as much of the guilt out of Mycroft as he could and confiscate his self-flagellation whip.  It was idiotic that he kept punishing himself for… _everything_ …. and it ended here.  Even if he had to drag Mycroft kicking and screaming back here and lock him in the flat for the next decade or two so he could erase that brainwashing, that was what was going to happen.

And Sherlock… as much as his heart hurt for Mycroft, it ached for the poor boy who was so obviously suffering his own personal trauma.  How much of it was the distress of his own experience plying Mycroft’s side trade and how much was the guilt and worry for the brother who was out there somewhere selling his dignity once again to try and save their family, Lestrade wasn’t sure.  The mean part of him said the former was the biggest source of Sherlock’s problem and… ok, he was just being terrible, because something like that would have devastated anyone, but especially someone like poor Sherlock.  He lived in his own little world where he was the most important person, almost the _only_ person, in it and it had all fallen to pieces.    Item two on his new list of priorities… be there for Sherlock.  Try to reassure the boy that he didn’t think any less of him now.  And maybe… maybe see if he could keep an eye out for someone who might make a decent friend, or more, to him.  His mum had been a legendary matchmaker, one of the reasons he’d left home young, so maybe he inherited some of her talent for bringing lonely people together and watching them catch fire.  Sherlock needed to realize that what he endured wasn’t the way it had to be.  It could be _so_ much different.  It could be what he and Mycroft shared… not that he wanted to think about that right now.

Strangely, though… his insides weren’t sour.  There was too much worry and fear right now to let any jealousy or sense of betrayal get a toehold.  Ultimately, this wasn’t about him or them.  It was about Sherlock and Mycroft’s nearly-obsessive need to take care of his brother even if meant destroying himself in the process.  Another reason Mycroft was getting locked in the flat.  Lestrade couldn’t lie to himself and say that he wasn’t concerned that Mycroft was actually _trying_ to destroy himself, even if he didn’t realize that was his plan.  Or maybe trying wasn’t the right word… maybe he just didn’t really care if that was the way things turned out or not.

      “Your clothing is sorely lacking in both fit and style.”

Perfect.  He’d been so lost in his head that he hadn’t heard Sherlock finish his shower and could only hope that none of his thinking had been out loud.  But, by the almost-normal look on Sherlock’s face, he could put that fear out of his mind.

      “Well, we’re all men here so if you want to dance around naked, have fun.  Let me put something down on the chairs first before you sit on them, though.”

Sherlock scowled, only grunting a ‘philistine’ as his reply and Lestrade watched the young man dither a moment before taking his own seat at the kitchen table.  Sherlock was still uneasy and physically looked drawn, with darkened circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t seen any sleep since Mycroft had disappeared.  Which, now that he’d let Sherlock calm down, they’d have to take up again.  But, they could both use beer before that happened and two appeared on the table before Sherlock could scoff at the brand.

      “Feeling better?”

      “I am feeling cleaner, if that suffices.”

      “Sometimes that’s just what you need.  Now, let’s pick up the pieces I let stay on the floor for the second go round.  Do you know, absolutely know for certain, that Mycroft hasn’t been home?  From what I understood, you two didn’t always overlap your schedules.”

      “That is true, however, I set several measures in place to test his presence or absence and he has clearly been absent.”

      “You set traps for him, didn’t you?”

      “Small ones, very unlikely to be lethal.”

      “Perfect.  Ok… I guess you’re telling me that this isn’t what he usually does when he needs money, right?”

      “No.  He restricts his… indiscretions… to hours outside of his work.  Save once.”

And now Sherlock was almost back to the unsettled creature that Lestrade had first found in his kitchen.

      “And is this ‘once’ the reason you’re worried about his safety?”

      “Yes.”

      “I’ll need more than ‘yes’ if you want me to understand.”

Sherlock took a long sip of the bottle in front of him and nodded.

      “There was an accident, of sorts, involving a vehicle parked outside our building and a small experiment I was performing.  The window of our flat was also compromised during the event.”

Oh, how lovely…

      “And the cost of this little experiment?”

      “Nearly £700.”

      “Wonderful… and Mycroft decided to take care of it in his own special way.”

      “As he is want to do.  There was an urgency as the vehicle owner was a friend of the landlord and, with the damage to the flat, we were being threatened with eviction.  Mycroft left the flat for a few hours and when he returned, simply said that he would take care of the costs and I should think no more about it.  He then left again and did not return for two days.  And he was not well.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “He did not walk… properly.”

Of course.

      “Yeah… well, that’s to be expected isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s bewildered face confused Lestrade and it was a moment before Sherlock’s puzzlement broke and he appeared almost embarrassed to pursue the topic any further.

      “No… you are misunderstanding.  I do not… I assume that was partially the reason, however, it would not explain that he could not easily stand straight or bend to pick up items from the bed, let alone the floor.  He did not take himself out to practice his art, either.  He could not sit or lay for long and avoided lifting anything of any appreciable weight.  Further, it was several weeks before he would allow any bare flesh to be visible besides that on his face, despite no previous excessive modesty.  He paid the landlord the morning of his return and never, never a single time, discussed how he earned the money.”

Lestrade did his best to keep his emotion off of his face but knew he was failing miserably.  That never had entered his mind, though he’d seen evidence of it often enough in his work.  Not every client was just a lonely bloke looking for a little release to take the edge off.  His Mycroft had gotten hurt.  Really hurt and not that stuff the chains and floggers crowd enjoyed.  He’d been injured and now… yeah, Sherlock’s concerns were becoming a lot more understandable.  And sitting in this nice warm flat with a good beer was making him feel disgusted with himself.  Mycroft was out there being violated, maybe abused… and it had been chilly the past few days.  Did he have any money for food?  Knowing Mycroft he wouldn’t spend any of what he earned to take care of himself and he could be hungry and weak, which would make him even more vulnerable.  Lestrade had to sit on his hands because if he didn’t things would start flying around his kitchen.

      “I believe you are understanding the foundation of my concerns.”

      “You’re fucking right I am!  Four days!”

      “Very soon to be five.”

Five…  five days allowing who knows who to do who knows what to him… no.  No.  It didn’t matter what Sherlock owed, this was not happening.

      “Do you have any idea, any idea of all where he might be?  Where he… looks for customers?”

      “No.  Mycroft has not been keen to divulge details of that part of his life.  However…”

      “Do not stop in the middle like that again or I swear I’ll kick you in the head.”

      “I shall forestall comment on the working-class nature of your violent reaction in the name of expediency.  As I was saying, I may have _some_ idea where to begin a search.”

      “ _Some_ idea… ok, it’s better than nothing.  What have you got?”

      “It is nothing definite, however, when Mycroft last disappeared…”

      “You mean when he got the crap beat out of him?”

      “As you say… now, when Mycroft last disappeared, he forced me to accompany him to the shops some days afterwards and I requested a diversion for the purpose of obtaining some cuttings of a particular shrub whose leaves have some rather interesting neurotoxic properties and he objected most strenuously when we I specified the location of my shrub.  Needless to say I ignored his naysaying, however…”

      “See my leg?  Lifting right up to crack your skull…”

      “Your legs are insufficiently long and limber to accomplish your threat so kindly stop embarrassing yourself.  To continue, at one point, Mycroft’s agitation increased to a rather alarming level, not that any other passersby would have noticed and he physically grabbed my arm and pulled me to the other side of the street to continue walking.  I was very much of the impression that the escalation of his upset was prompted by a building that we were approaching.  He went so far as to look behind at it after we had passed.”

      “Which building?”

      “I have no idea of its name if that is your question, but I do know where it is located.  I believe it would be a place to being our search, if, possibly, it was connected to the last occasion where he needed and acquired a great deal of money at short notice.”

It was a start.  Maybe not a great one, but it was better than nothing.

      “Ok, I’ll go give it a look and see what I can learn.  You stay here and I’ll be back when I know something.”

      “It amuses me that you believe I have any intention of following your commands like a trained terrier.  I _will_ be involved in this search and there is nothing, barring using your handcuffs to bind me in place, that can change the situation.”

Lestrade glared at Sherlock, who coolly stared back and the PC had to admit that (1) it _would_ take handcuffs to stop Sherlock following along if he wanted to and (2) it said something that Sherlock was insisting on helping with the search for his brother and not taking the easier route of letting Lestrade do the legwork.

      “Alright… but you will answer to me on this, do you understand?  You do what I say, when I say it because between the two of us, this is my area and not yours.  Got that?”

      “I am not going to take a fealty oath, if that is your intention.”

      “Just acknowledge that I just might know more about this sort of thing than you do, so if I tell you something I’m not talking out of my arse.”

      “If it reassures you, I do not have any interest in impeding our efforts towards locating Mycroft and if that means I must acquiesce to your ridiculous terms, then I shall do so, but only so long as it is appropriate and productive.”

      “That had better be a fancy way of saying you understand me and agree.”

      “If you choose to interpret it that way, then I shall not argue with you.”

That was as good as ok as he was going to get from Sherlock, so Lestrade snatched it gladly.

      “Fine.  And I’ll hold you to that.  Finish your beer and we’ll go give this place a look over.  If that doesn’t lead anywhere, I’ll make a few calls and find out… I’ll find out where the most likely places are for making good money on your back.  Ok, I did not just say that.  Forget I said that and punch me if anything like that ever comes out of my mouth again.”

      “It was not necessarily inappropriate.”

      “No, but it wasn’t kind.”

Sherlock fidgeted in his chair and made a show of slowly prying the label off of his beer bottle.

      “I was not entirely certain you would care if Mycroft received your kindness after this betrayal.”

Sitting on hands… always a good thing…

      “Now is not the time, Sherlock.  Mycroft’s out there trying to straighten out your problems, yet again, so do not begin to think this is the time to examine his and my relationship.  Am I making myself clear?”

      “I had no desire to examine anything.  I was simply making an honest statement.  It was for that reason I hesitated coming here in the first place.  I did not know if you would simply turn your back on him and leave him to his fate.”

It was a good thing Lestrade kept his fingernails very short or they’d be digging into the underside of his thighs.  But he couldn’t say Sherlock was being an idiot.  They’d talked about this and he’d definitely said he’d lose his senses if he found out Mycroft was working his side business again.  Yeah, he’d work through it eventually, but working through something later doesn’t mean you’re not a complete bastard about things at the moment.  It had been a valid concern and he didn’t have a right to call Sherlock out for it.

      “Ok… I can’t say you were entirely loony thinking the way you did and I don’t know what my feelings are going to be when we find him, but that’s not important right now.  What’s important is that we find him and make sure he’s safe.  And no matter what, Sherlock, I will always be there for Mycroft.  Maybe we’ve got some huge fights ahead of us about all of this, especially when I tell him that he is not going to be doing this ever again.  Not once and that’s over my dead body if he even tries.  And I expect that you’ll back me on this and not make it so that he feels the need to pull his penitent’s robe out of the closet and do something this stupid again.”

That was, perhaps, not the best thing to say to Sherlock, who looked like he’d been punched in the gut.  And didn’t necessarily think he had the right to complain about it.

      “I did not plan for this.”

      “I know… I know you didn’t.  And I know you tried to fix it yourself, so I’m not speaking against you, lad.  I’m just saying that we both need to make a wall between him and that big brain of his that seems to think that it’s fine if he takes everyone’s lashes on top of his own.  That’s all I’m saying… nothing else.  Understand?”

Sherlock very visibly relaxed in his chair and Lestrade made a mental note to take more care with him in the future.  Under the almost antagonistic arrogance he liked to display, there was a sensitive and vulnerable person that the PC was starting to understand a little more every time he had a chance to actually talk to the boy.

      “I believe I do.”

      “Good.  That’s good.  So, you ready?”

Lestrade watched Sherlock take a deep breath and slowly rose from the table.

      “I am.  I am not entirely content to be seen in public in this horrendous outfit, but it seems I have little choice.”

      “My clothes are the height of fashion.”

      “Eight years ago, perhaps.”

      “I’d have to check the receipts, but you might not be far off.”

__________

Sherlock led Lestrade towards what he hoped was a clue to his brother’s location and continued to try and process his own feelings.  When he realized that Mycroft had, again, gone missing he experienced a wide variety of emotions, none of which he enjoyed or fully understood.  Mycroft was foolish.  Utterly and inexcusably foolish.  Always thinking himself the Great Wall between the world and their pathetic flat.  Between the world and _him_.  It was the _height_ of foolishness and he should feel nothing but scorn.  Moreover, Mycroft was a selfish, self-serving misery who kept them wallowing in the mud of poverty.  He _could_ strive for more, yet refused to take the necessary steps and they were lessened because of it.  Though _he_ was not as lessened as Mycroft.  The horrid PC did not need to tell him that Mycroft often neglected his own welfare so that extra food or amenities were present for _his_ use.  And again, he should feel scorn for such uselessly altruistic behavior.  As well as for his entirely useless choice of career.  And lackluster romantic interest.  He should feel all of that and the fact that other feelings were swirling through his body and mind was infuriating!  He should not even be able to recognize those feelings, so rarely did he feel them and now they were pounding him as harshly as a storm surge against a rocky shoreline.  There was no place in his life for guilt or regret, for worry or shame and they needed to subside now.  Immediately.  They interfered with his ability to properly analyze the facts and apply logic to the problem.  This was the fundamental reason emotions were to be avoided – they stood staunchly in the path of progress.

      “You doing ok, Sherlock?  You’ve been a little quiet.”

Of course he was quiet.  If he began speaking, the possibility existed that those infernal emotions would take hold of him again and flow from his mouth in the form of words he didn’t want any other human to ever hear him say.

      “I am perfectly well and we are only a few streets away from our destination, so now is the time to share any strategy you are considering for obtaining information.”

      “That’s easy.  Knock on the door and ask.”

      “Tomfoolery will not assist us in our inquiry.”

      “I’m being serious.  I mean, we take a look around first, see what we can see, but I’m not on duty right now.  I can’t just go in and start searching around… I couldn’t even do that if I _was_ on duty.  There’s not much else I can do except make a few calls and see if I can find out any information, but that’ll send up some red flags I’d rather not be raised yet.  Mycroft would _not_ thank me for having the lads out if he’s not in danger.  But it’s not illegal to knock on someone’s door and as questions, so long as you don’t plan on using them in court.  And this could be a false lead anyway!  We’re assuming it’s got something to do with Mycroft, but there’s no evidence for it.”

      “This is farcical.  Simply present your identification and demand information.”

      “No… I’d actually like to keep my job thank you very much.  Now, you promised, Sherlock.  No doing anything rash and that I’ll get sacked over.  We need money too badly right now for me to be out of a job.”

And that was another source of unrest in Sherlock’s emotional miasma.  Mycroft’s pet constable was not supposed to toss proverbial wrenches into the very orderly gears of his mind.  He was entirely too… _involved_.  And if Mycroft’s words were to be taken with any degree of seriousness, the PC was going to be involved far into the foreseeable future.  It was more in his stack of events and ideas to make sense of and it was far too much, on top of everything else.  _We_ … Lestrade used the word so easily…

      “Very well, but if I discern other methods for achieving our objective I shall not hesitate to use them.”

      “Oh perfect, I’ll love having to run you in again.”

      “As you noted, you are not currently empowered to do so.”

      “Citizen’s arrest.  I’ll citizen’s arrest you right into a cell if you do something crazy.”

      “That is a fiction of tired and uninspired filmmakers.”

      “Don’t be so sure, Mr. Science.  I’ve got my eye on you, so don’t make me exercise my citizenry power, because it won’t go well for you if I do.”

      “I will give your words all the consideration they are due.”

      “You’ve already forgotten them, haven’t you?”

      “Pardon me?  Were we having a conversation?”

__________

Despite Lestrade’s objections, Sherlock insisted on performing his own investigation of the property before he was allowed to take a look at things for himself.   For the moment, he had to content himself with examining the exterior of the building from a handy vantage point a few doors away.  Nice area, but that didn’t mean anything.  If there was one thing he’d learned was that the ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ idea wasn’t completely daft.

      “We must get inside and gather further information.”

Police constables do not shriek like puppies whose tail was stepped on, so that must have been some other bloke making such an unmanly noise.

      “Why are you sneaking up on people?”

      “There was no sneaking involved.  The fact that you are pitifully unobservant is in no way my fault.  I simply chose to circle the block and assess the surrounding environment.”

      “Well, good for you Miss Marple.  Did you learn anything in all your snooping?”

Oh, he certainly did.  The unease that flooded Sherlock’s eyes screamed to Lestrade that he’d learned more than he’d ever wanted to learn.

      “There were a few rooms into which I could gain a view and… I am not entirely ignorant of sexual activities, Lestrade, and I do recognize the diversity of tastes and interests.”

      “It’s a sex club?”

      “I don’t know if there is any formalization of the institution, but there is no lack of sexual interaction occurring.”

      “Well… that would make sense, I guess.  If Mycroft needed money fast, the best place would be where he could have guaranteed access to customers and customers, if this neighborhood is any indication, who don’t mind paying a good price for their fun.  However, people having a go at each other doesn’t explain Mycroft’s injuries or his reaction to this place.  The BDSM crowd takes safety seriously and don’t leave people beat up so badly it takes weeks to heal.  What you described… that sounded like bruised ribs, at the very least.”

      “I agree.  However, I noticed a separate entrance in the rear and there is every indication the property extends below street level.  I would not assume that any particularly egregious behavior would be perpetrated for a potentially unrestricted audience.  The behaviors I observed were… they did not contrast sharply with what I… experienced.  I do not believe that acts that would produce Mycroft’s condition would be something they would expect.

      “You’re saying they might put the really wicked bastards in the basement where they don’t spook the rest of the guests?”

      “It is a possibility, is it not?”

A really bad cop movie possibility, maybe.  But strange things happened.  At the very least, it was worth implementing his very complex and well thought-out plan.

      “Ok, then, let’s knock and see if anybody wants to admit to being home.”

      “You are not serious?”

      “Sherlock, I’ve got nothing to pass along that would get us a legal right to take a look around the place and without exigent circumstances, we can’t burst in and start thumping heads.  So, let me handle this and don’t cause a fuss.  We have no idea this house has anything to do with Mycroft, no idea at all.  Please, just keep quiet and let me do the talking.  If you can’t do that, then you can stay right here and wait.”

      “I am not going to be left behind like a discarded napkin.”

      “Then don’t do anything that might get us on the wrong side of a police action, alright?”

Lestrade motioned Sherlock forward, hoping the younger man couldn’t read his expression to the point that he could tell Lestrade’s caution was mostly a big fat lie.  His senses were saying there was definitely a reason to make a connection between the house they were walking towards and Mycroft’s situation, but he could not approach this any way but professionally.  He might be off duty, but he was still expected to conduct himself properly, especially when he was doing what amounted to an investigation.  An investigation about his boyfriend, maybe, but an investigation nonetheless.  Lestrade gave Sherlock one final look and hoped his definitely-not-Holmes-quality glare was enough of a message to convince Sherlock to just keep his personality in check so they might actually get some information.  A quick knock and then they waited patiently for the sound of someone unlocking the door.

      “May I help you?”

Younger man in a suit.  Had that air of someone who worked there, not someone who lived there.

      “Yeah… can we speak to the… management?”

      “And the nature of your business?”

      “Just a friendly chat.  I think we’ve got a mutual acquaintance.”

      “I’m sorry, sir, but you will have to be more specific.”

      “Mycroft Holmes.  Tall, skinny, insufferable and likely festooned with paint smudges.  He was here and we demand information about his visit.”

Lestrade rolled back so that his heel dug into Sherlock’s foot.  Was it genetically impossible for either of the Holmes brothers to use any common sense?  However, he’d been on the job long enough to be able to read faces pretty well and the man at the door definitely recognized Mycroft’s name when it was mentioned.

      “I’m sorry, but I am unfamiliar with that name.”

And lying about it.

      “An infant would know you were dissembling.  Where is Mycroft?”

Thank you, Sherlock.  You are officially banned from any further investigations.

      “Look, friend.  All we want is a quiet word with the person in charge.  No one’s trying to make any trouble and, if you cooperate, that’s the way things can stay.”

Before Sherlock could say anything else, Lestrade gave his toes another slight bit of pressure, just as a warning of worse that could come if he didn’t keep his mouth shut.  Luckily, it looked like they were going to get their wish.

      “Very well.  If you will follow me?”

Lestrade and Sherlock walked through the tastefully-decorated entranceway and followed the man towards the back of the ground floor where he quietly knocked on a large, heavy door and asked them to wait a moment while he walked in and closed the door behind him.

      “This is taking too long.  Go in there and demand answers.”

      “Sherlock, I swear that if you open your mouth one more time it’ll get filled with my fist.”

      “Why?  We achieved entry didn’t we?”

      “Just let me handle this!”

      “Pfft.  I will not hesitate to speak my mind if I believe you are demonstrating your characteristic incompetence.”

      “It’s no wonder Mycroft thinks he has to take care of you – you’re a toddler!”

      “Completely untrue!  Even as a toddler, I was possessed of the intellect and maturity level of someone many years older!”

      “Just shut it while we’re in there or I’ll drag your nappy down, put you over my knee and give you a slap on the arse you won’t forget.”

      “That will likely count as a job interview in this establishment.”

      “Oh god, you’re right.  Fine, nappy stays on until we get back to my flat, but then… you just watch it.”

Luckily, there was a pause in the conversation when the door again opened and they were asked to step inside.  Their guide excused himself and, again, closed the door behind him.

      “Good evening, gentlemen.  How may I assist you?”

Lestrade looked over the man sitting behind the large desk in what was obviously his office and got no specific feeling about him.  Middle-aged and looked like a typical businessman, which he very well might be.  Just for an unusual type of business.

      “We’re looking for a friend of ours and have reason to believe you might have information on his whereabouts.  His name’s Mycroft Holmes.  He’s… worked for you before, I understand.”

Again, that flicker of recognition.  Yeah, he knew Mycroft.  Now, Lestrade just had to hope he had something helpful to tell them.

      “Mycroft… it would be rather difficult to forget such a unique name.  Yes, I have met him, though I cannot comment on any so-called employment status.”

      “Is he here now?”

      “No, though if he was, it would be by his own choice and I would not permit you to disturb him.”

      “You don’t mind if we check around to confirm that, do you?”

      “Not at all!  In fact, a number of my guests would quite enjoy an audience.  That is what they are here for after all.  They have needs and I match them with willing and well-paid individuals to meet those needs.  It’s all very civilized and profitable for those on the service side of the transaction.”

Well, their host was being quite helpful, wasn’t he?  Like a man who either had nothing to hide or was sure what he was hiding you had no chance of finding.  And he apparently didn’t mind discussing the goings-on in the building.  Now, Lestrade had no problem with consenting adults having a little fun, but fun didn’t include one person getting beaten so badly they couldn’t bend over to grab a book of his own bed.  Helpful or not, there was a lot more here to learn.

      “And what happens when it’s _not_ civilized?  When the receiving side of the transaction decides they want something a little more… barbaric?”

None of these people had much talent for hiding their reactions.  Or maybe he was just getting better at reading them.  Watch, the next thing out of this man’s mouth would be utterly ridiculous.

      “I have no idea what you mean?  Everyone here is extraordinarily well-behaved.”

Sherlock’s snort was fairly appropriate in the PC’s opinion.  To be fair, it could be that the man just didn’t have a lot of experience lying through his teeth.  He surely did an awful job of it.

      “Maybe right now, yes.  But I bet you get someone around now and then who wants something rough.  And I’m not talking about that black leather and riding crop rough, but a real nasty character that you’d have to find someone _special_ and pay them a _lot_ to step in and do that job.  And Mycroft _was_ a special boy once, wasn’t he?”

      “I’m sorry, but you are quite mistaken.”

But the slight hint of worry in the man’s voice was as damning as a confession.

      “No, I’m not.  And as I told your friend, we’re not here to cause trouble.  We’re just here to get Mycroft and bring him back home.  That’s all.”

      “Well then, you are to be disappointed.  As I stated, he is not here and you are quite welcome to go where you like in the house and confirm that fact.  And, for no reason, do I allow any such nonsense as you are describing under this roof.  This is a genial establishment, for heaven’s sake.”

Sherlock tapped Lestrade on the shoulder then leaned over to whisper in his ear.  Ok, maybe the lad did have some uses, after all.

      “Alright then, we believe you.  If not under this roof, then where?  Don’t try to lie either, because we’ll know and, frankly, my patience is running low.  He’s not here, fine, but you _will_ tell me where he is and you’ll do it now.”

      “I do not…”

      “No… just don’t try.  Really, don’t.  Right now, I’m being a nice, agreeable chap and will happily leave that way so long as I get the information I want.  Please don’t do anything to make that change.  Now, tell me where Mycroft is and stop wasting my time.”

Because the man _did_ know.  And if Mycroft wasn’t here, not ‘under this roof,’ then he was out there and very likely in danger and Lestrade was suddenly having a murderous time controlling his temper.  Mycroft came here, put himself up for what he knew would be a very good paying job and was out there doing that job right now.  Only a couple of days last time and he was brutalized.  It had been nearly five now…

      “I’m sorry, but the privacy of my clients is something I value.”

      “You value their money, that’s all.   Here’s how this goes… right now, I don’t care about anything else except Mycroft.  That’s all.  But, if you force my hand, I’m going to start caring about a lot of other things.  I’m going to start caring about firmly establishing the ownership of this property and the identities of all the people currently on the premises, both the workers and the clients.  I’m going to start caring about things such as tax records, zoning regulations and that’s before I even start caring about specific charges dealing with the kind of fun your guests are having.  I make a phone call and my caring is going to be shared by a lot of my uniformed mates and before you start squawking about how you’ll have my job and stuff like that, just remember that once the papers get hold of the story, you won’t have much of a business anymore.  I might lose my job, but you’ll lose all of this.”

      “You’re from the police.”

Lestrade was at least relieved there was an even greater touch of worry in the man’s voice because he really had no idea if he could have actually made good on his threat, _especially_ without losing his job.

      “ _From_ implies I’m here in an official capacity, which I’m not.  I just want to find Mycroft.  If you prefer I take a more official approach to this conversation, then I’m happy to comply.”

Fingers crossed that his no-nonsense voice was going to work because he needed that information _now_.  If he had to drag the law into this, there was no telling how long it would be before he could find out where Mycroft was…

      “You… you will not say this information came from me.  That I must insist.”

The waft of breath at the back of his neck told Lestrade that Sherlock’s sigh of relief was as large as the one he was going to let out as soon as they were back on the pavement.

      “Like I said – not here to cause trouble.  Oh, and I’ll take his pay for this little job.  And do not try and hold anything back because I’ll find out and then we’ll have to have this conversation again.”

The man reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a cheque book.

      “Cash.”

The glare he received just prompted Lestrade to toss back one of his own, but in a few moments he held a small slip of paper with an address and an envelope that he passed back to Sherlock to count.

      “Is that enough?”

      “It is acceptable.”

      “Ok then, I guess we’re done here.  I’ll keep your name out of things as best as I’m able and I don’t see any reason for me to come back here again.  And neither will Mycroft.”

Sherlock and Lestrade didn’t wait to be escorted out and quickly exited the building, continuing on down the street until they found a suitable out-of-sight place to regroup.

      “You sure that’ll cover your debt?”

      “To the penny.  Mycroft was not even sufficiently level-headed to demand more for our own use.”

      “Well, he wasn’t thinking very clearly was he?  But, we got what we wanted.”

      “And what do you intend to do with that information?  Knock and ask politely that Mycroft be allowed to come home for dinner?”

      “I’m not exactly sure yet, but I don’t care what it takes, we _are_ bringing him home.  You… you do realize what’s happening to him, don’t you?”

Lestrade hoped that, one day, Sherlock would be able to tell Mycroft how he felt about him.  No one could feel that much guilt or pain over another person unless they cared about them and all of that feeling was clearly written across Sherlock’s lean face.

      “I do.  And I, also, am committed to retrieving him.  Are you certain you do not yet wish to involve the authorities?  It might expedite Mycroft’s release.”     

      “I’ve got an address and one statement testifying that’s where Mycroft is and that statement specifies he’s there willingly.  There’s no evidence of anything wrong, even if you try and argue it’s… prostitution.  Now, I could probably stir up enough noise to get some attention thrown at the problem, but it’ll take some time and that’s one thing we just don’t have.  If we can’t do this ourselves, that’ll be our next step, but by then, he might already be tossed out on the street.”

      “I accept your logic.  For now.  Do you have money for a cab?”

      “Me?  You’re the one with a fortune in his pocket!”

      “Which I need for other purposes.  You shall pay for the cab.”

      “Oh my god… I never want to have kids if this is what it’s like.”

      “With Mycroft as your partner, that will not be a consideration.  However, should you adopt a pet, do not for a moment think that I will ever be charged with its care or feeding.”

      “Don’t worry.  He’ll be the one in charge.  I’m not stupid, you know.”

__________

The cab deposited Lestrade and Sherlock a few doors down from the intended address, at their request, and the two men stood in the shadows observing the very large townhouse that was their target.  Sherlock started to move forward, but Lestrade drew him back, ignoring Sherlock’s irritated scowl.

      “Not this time.  This time we go together.  I really don’t need you coming up against someone who thinks it’s a lark to buy someone like livestock and not even treat them as well as a dairy cow.  Stay with me and let’s check things out first.  It looks pretty quiet, but you can never tell.  Come on…”

Feeling a little silly creeping around in the dark, Lestrade led Sherlock towards the building, thankful that the property they wanted was on the end of the block, so they had a larger number of windows to access for a possible view inside.  Sherlock, again, was studying the foundation and trying to look through the smallish windows that led into the basement and Lestrade took the ground floor windows while he tried to concoct a plan to gain access to the higher floors.  This time, when Sherlock startled him, by wrapping a long-fingered hand around his ankle, Lestrade took pride in his lack of screaming.

      “Don’t do that!  What do you want, anyway?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, which set off the first of Lestrade’s internal alarms, and the next set was fired by Sherlock’s silent, but insistent tug on the bottom of his trousers.  The boy was lying prone on the ground staring through a very small window that was showing a sliver of light through the curtains that mostly obscured the view.  When Sherlock rolled over to let Lestrade take a look, the PC wrestled with a fierce desire not to take that look because Sherlock’s face was twisted into something that too closely resembled a man desperately trying to keep himself from weeping.  Lying in the space Sherlock had vacated and ignoring the heaving breaths of the person next to him, Lestrade peered through the tiny separation of the curtains and felt his heart stop beating in his chest.  Huddled in a corner was a painfully-thin, pale, naked man whose body was heavily patterned with near-black bruises, which made a hideous image on their own, let alone mixed with the wet, red streaks of blood on his face, neck and backs of his legs that lay over darker, dried patches from days before.  If he was breathing, it was so shallow Lestrade could scarcely notice and that was ok, because he wasn’t either.

      “Now, Lestrade.  We have to get him now.”

      “Yeah, we do.  You have a problem with things getting physical it if comes to it?”

      “I’m somewhat hoping they do, actually.”

      “Good.  So am I.”


	15. Chapter 15

A quick discussion preceded the decision that Lestrade’s former tactics of knocking and asking nicely wasn’t going to be the proper strategy for this specific occasion.  A quick snatch and grab was the smartest plan since there was less chance of Mycroft getting in the middle of any altercation that, right now, he was in no circumstance to endure.  Lestrade joined Sherlock in surveying the building’s exterior and it only took moments to find a window that was large enough to get them through, in addition to getting Mycroft back out and Lestrade both surprised and impressed Sherlock by jimmying the latch so they could slide through.  Once inside, both men pulled up short from the very obvious smell of blood and decay that filled the air and Sherlock would make no mention of the very audible growl that sounded from the man next to him.  The younger Holmes imagined that the PC had come across some very troubling circumstances before, but it was a very different thing when some you care about was involved.

In a flash, the two raced towards Mycroft and, this time, it was not a growl, but a quiet moan of anguish that erupted from Lestrade as they got a closer look at Mycroft’s condition, as both Sherlock and he wrestled with their emotions seeing the devastation that marked Mycroft’s body.  It seemed that not a single inch had been spared, save his face and his hands and Sherlock had a sour thought that it was only the likely inclusion of that bit of forbearance in the negotiations of his service that spared his brother those indignities.  Everything else… there was some comfort, Sherlock found, in the fact that Lestrade was having as difficult a time looking at the damage as was he.

For his part, the PC was not actually sure his brain was working the way it should be.  Nothing seemed to be fitting together properly.  Every time he tried to make a thought it would fracture and a hundred others would jump into the pool with it and the party they were having was not something that was leading anywhere productive.  Most troubling was the fact that they hadn’t necessarily been quiet sneaking into the basement room and Mycroft didn’t seem to notice they were there.  With the deep and heavy bruising, the gashes in Mycroft’s beautiful skin, the knee that was swollen and the blood… so very much blood… Lestrade could only hope that there was no significant internal damage they’d have to worry about; a quick look at Sherlock told him the younger man was thinking along similar lines.  And, as of yet, neither of them had mustered the courage to touch the brutally injured Mycroft.  Sherlock’s eyes lifted to meet Lestrade’s and they engaged in a silent debate, ultimately deciding that the PC should be the one to explore further and said PC was honestly not certain if he was happy about that fact.

Very carefully, Lestrade laid a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and, when that produced no reaction, jostled Mycroft lightly, earning himself a weak struggle as Mycroft tried to move away from his touch.

      “No!  You p…promised me an hour of rest… it hasn’t been an hour.  Has it b…been an hour?  Just a little m…more.  Please, a l…little more…. please…”

Three things clicked into Lestrade’s mind at almost the same instant.  First, the slightly watery, clattery sounds that accompanied Mycroft’s words meant bad things that they’d need a doctor to fix.  Second, Mycroft still wasn’t very responsive or recognizing what was happening.  Third, if he _never_ heard his lover say please like that again, he’d die a happy man.  No one should ever sound so completely broken…

      “Mycroft… it’s me, Greg.  Sherlock’s here, too. Can you open your eyes, love?  It’s us, we’re here to take you home.”

That did prompt an increase in Mycroft’s response and one eye cracked slightly, then widened, only to blink a few times to try and focus his vision.

      “Gregory?”

      “Yeah, Mycroft.  It’s me.  Sherlock’s right here, too.  Can you stand?  We’re taking you out of here and…”

      “No!  Sh…Sherlock needs me and I c…cannot…. I can’t…”

Sherlock waved his fingers in front of his brother’s open eye to capture Mycroft’s attention and breathed an inner sigh of relief that the eye followed his fingers back to the source of the motion.

      “We have obtained your wages.  There is no reason for you to continue to suffer, so you must allow us to help you.”

Lestrade would never make any remark on the thickness of emotion in Sherlock’s voice or the pride he felt that Sherlock was actually being gentle with his brother and not hiding his deeper emotions behind a wall of ugly bluster.

      “I’m… no… it has not… seven days was… I am here for…”

      “You’re done, love.  They can ask for a refund if they want, but you are coming with us now.  Try and sit… no, wait, don’t sit up.  Sherlock, can you find something to wrap him up in.  I don’t see his clothes anywhere.”

While the younger Holmes searched for something to wrap around his brother, Lestrade made a closer examination of his artist and ached with every new detail he found.  This was barbaric.  Absolutely mental.  You had to be entirely out of your mind to do this to another person and if he could possibly get the chance to have this sadist locked up, he’d see it done without a second thought.

      “This was all I could find that would suffice.”

That it was obviously an old dropcloth used when some part of the house was painted was an nasty coincidence that neither man appreciated, but no words were wasted on the issue as Sherlock began to drape the dirty cloth over his brother’s naked body, trying as best he could to keep the filthier portions near the least damaged areas of Mycroft’s skin.  Lestrade was contemplating how best to move his injured partner when a loud clearing of a throat pushed their secret escape plan right off the table.

      “May I ask what you think you’re doing?”

Cultured voice that matched the refined, though arrogantly-toned, face.  Light hair and a bearing similar to Mycroft’s own.  Not as sizeable a person, as Lestrade had pictured, though why his mind had conjured an image of a big ugly bruiser, he had no clue.  And his clothes were strangely unnerving.  An impeccable, obviously expensive suit, with white gloves on his hands, one of which was holding a length of rope that matched the bruises and abrasions on Mycroft’s arms.  This was what bastard wore when he had his _fun_ and something about that was so twisted it turned Lestrade’s stomach.

      “That would be taking Mycroft the fuck out of this torture chamber and getting him some medical help.”

      “And why do think I would permit that?”

Lestrade now officially despised all posh voices.  Except Mycroft’s.  And he could make an exception for Sherlock’s, too, now and then.

      “Because it’s two of us here and only one of you.  Plus, you might not really understand this, but we’re not too happy about the situation and I have absolutely zero problem taking my unhappiness out on your face.  That sound good to you, lad?”

Lestrade was on his feet now and Sherlock was doing an impressive impression of a large and languid cat unfurling itself as he slowly rose to stand next to him.

      “I find that suggestion admirably appealing.”

Their adversary wasn’t very intimidating in appearance, but it sent a small chill down both men’s spines watching him saunter a few steps closer as if he was enjoying an amiable chat in the park with a few friends.  And that smug little smile on his lips… Lestrade desperately wanted to rip those lips off the man’s face and make him eat them for breakfast, but the purpose was to get Mycroft out of there safely and quickly and a brawl wasn’t going to help with that goal.

      “I was never terribly good at receiving threats so I shall ignore your pitiable attempt.  That you are here implies you are not unaware of what is transpiring and I am not in the habit of receiving any less than that for which I have paid.  So, you are welcome to return in… well, if you require the exact hour I can provide that, but let us say the evening after next and you are welcome to take my toy away with you.”

Maybe Lestrade could have held his cool if it was only the pompous speech.  If it was only the arrogant gleam in the bastard’s eyes.  But when the piece of dirt tossed his length of rope onto Mycroft as if he was adding more trash to a pile, Lestrade’s temper snapped and, with it, so did the man’s nose.

      “How dare you!”

      “Sherlock, you want a bit of this?”

Sherlock’s answer was a right hook that, if it didn’t crack their opponent’s jaw, it was a near thing from what Lestrade could see.  Suddenly, their host didn’t seem so imposing.  That haughty expression was as absent as Lestrade’s concern for the villain’s welfare and it was when Sherlock started chuckling that the PC caught onto the night’s biggest joke.

      “How utterly boring.  Place the tiniest scratch on the surface and the façade falls to pieces like a broken window.  I had hoped for something more entertaining than a commonplace schoolyard bully, but it seems I am to be disappointed.”

Yeah, they had this one’s story now and Lestrade felt a wash of relief inside because bullies weren’t that hard to handle when you knew how.

      “I get it… you can’t jump into a dust up on your own, at least not without coming out dead, so you pay people to let you feel like a big man.  Must have a little problem getting your bell rung, too, or you wouldn’t have to go at it with the person you’re paying so you can pretend you’ve got something worthwhile under the bonnet.  Christ… I was loathing you a minute ago, but now I pity you and I’m not sure which sickens me more.”

Getting spat at wasn’t pleasant at the best of times, but when the spit was mostly blood it was particularly annoying.  Lestrade was very aware of how hard it was to get bloodstains out of clothes.

      “You little prick!  I should make you pay for my cleaning!”

      “Do you have any _idea_ with whom you are dealing?”

      “A pompous twat as far as I can tell.  Oh, I’m sure you can list off all your powerful friends and rich people you annoy at parties, but here’s the story.  We’re taking Mycroft out of here and if you’re smart you’ll stand back and let us do it.  Make one move, any move, to get in our way and we’ll have to reserve a bed for _you_ in hospital.  Or, maybe we’ll just do to you what you did to him and then leave you down here to figure out how to get yourself some help.”

      “He is here willingly!  He agreed to everything!”

      “Yeah, he’s an idiot, what can I say?  That’s no excuse for you to… no, I’m going to stop there.  There’s no excuse for you.”

      “The time was bought and paid for!  We had an agreement!”

Lestrade was having a monstrously difficult time restraining himself from just tearing the bleeding man apart and leaving him in a state worse than his beloved artist.  A quick look at Sherlock reassured him the feeling was mutual; however… the more destruction he caused, the higher the possibility that the police would get involved somehow and then he’d be out of a job, if not behind bars for deadly assault.  Any other time and he wouldn’t care, but who would sort out Sherlock and Mycroft if he was occupying a cell for the next few years?  Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d just take his badge and then he’d be scrambling for some way to earn money to keep their heads above water while Mycrot recuperated.  That was a definite problem with being a cop… you get into it with a member of the public, off-duty or not, and it didn’t go well for you.  Later, when he could pull some things together, he’d get Mycroft’s revenge and this waste of a human being would never be the wiser of how it happened.  If that occurred with the assistance of a sack that would nicely fit over the bloke’s head and a long length of pipe, well… wouldn’t that be quick and effective.

      “Fine.  Lad, pull out that envelope, will you?  The one in your pocket?”

Ignoring the younger Holmes’s curious stare as he produced the envelope, Lestrade rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet in a last-ditch attempt to work off some of the furious energy that was making this a very dangerous situation.

      “Calculate how much cash it would be for the rest of Mycroft’s time and hand that over to our friend, the pathetic bully.”

It took a nod and the smallest of smiles from Lestrade to get Sherlock to comply, but he finally did as he was told.  Lestrade mentally gulped at the amount being counted out but he was fairly certain if he drained his savings account it would cover the shortage so Sherlock could pay off his debt and they could see the end of this latest bit of trouble.  Of course, now he’d have to find some way to pay Sherlock’s fine for his drugs charge, but that was a worry for another day…

      “There you go.  You’ve got exactly what you paid for and a couple of knocks for being a pompous ass to boot.  So everyone’s square and we won’t even ask you to help us carry him out.  If I were you, I’d take your money, go upstairs and get some ice on that face.  We’ll even be so obliging as to sneak out so not a one of your neighbors catches a whiff of the shit that’s happening in their lovely neighborhood.  Shame if a few rumors got started… nasty things rumors.  Once they start, you can’t ever really be rid of them, can you?”

If it hadn’t been such a serious matter, Lestrade would have giggled at how completely Mycroft’s captor failed at leveling a lethal glare at him.  Sherlock could do better without even really trying, but, it preceded the bastard scurrying up the stairs, so he’d be magnanimous and not make a rude gesture at his back.

      “Is that the extent of the penalty for his atrocities?  I would have thought you would have visited a far more… painful… punishment.”

      “Well, not everything has to happen today, does it?  The important thing is getting Mycroft out of here without him being collateral damage from me kicking that arsehole to death.  Now come on and help me get him up the stairs.  We are _not_ shoving him through that window.”

Sherlock nodded and Lestrade hoped he understood that this matter was not over.  Not nearly over…  willing or not, no one should have been put through that and the maniac currently icing his broken face needed to learn a little about what it meant to be worthy of the phrase “human being.”

__________

Moving Mycroft was the most heartbreaking and nerve-wracking experience Lestrade had ever suffered.  Every motion was accompanied by a shaky groan or whimper and it was the work of some minutes just to get him situated so they could carry him up the stairs and quickly out the front door into the dark of the shadows next to the house.  Leaving Sherlock a moment, Lestrade ran back inside and found a telephone to call for an ambulance, leaving the address only as the intersection of the nearby roads before he sprinted back to help Sherlock move Mycroft that extra distance so they could wait for help to arrive.  Right now, he wanted no clues as to what had happened to his artist, no connections that could be traced back.  Mycroft would crumble into dust if people started poking into this and he was not about to let that to happen.

      “He is very weak, Lestrade.  I have catalogued his likely injuries and they are troubling.  Highly troubling.”

The PC deflated at the sound of the lifeless, flat tone from Sherlock who was valiantly trying to cover his distress, and reached over to squeeze Sherlock’s shoulder in a show of support.  There was no getting around the fact that the younger man’s poor choices inspired Mycroft’s _own_ poor decisions and he was going to have to deal with the guilt of that reality.  And with Mycroft’s breathing getting faster and more shallow, there was a great likelihood that there would be a _lot_ of guilt to work through in the coming weeks.

      “Yeah, they are.  That’s why we’re getting him right to A&E.”

      “How… how are you going to explain this to the hospital personnel?  I cannot believe you will reveal the true story?”

      “That’s sort of what I _am_ going to do, actually.  It’s obvious that he’s been getting the crap beat out of him for days… on top of other things… and they’re going to want to call the lads in if I let them think he wasn’t a willing party to this.  At least in the beginning.  I think I can spin it as he agreed to one thing and wound up getting something else and wasn’t able to get away from it.  I know some of the people we’re likely to run into and I can call in a few favors if I have to and keep my mates out of it long enough until Mycroft is awake and can say he refuses to press charges or even give up a name.  Actually, if I can stall things long enough, we might be able to end things there if Mycroft can convince the docs that he’s not going to cooperate with the police.  If anyone could do that it _would_ be him, so I’m hopeful we can keep him away from any real police attention.  He’d want that.  He wouldn’t want anyone to know his business…”

Mycroft would be mortified, anyway.  This was going to be hard… insanely hard.  But what would have the artist expected anyway?  It wasn’t like he was going to be able to hide the fact he was battered like a grass hut in a typhoon!  Knowing Mycroft, he just decided it didn’t matter what people saw.  He probably believed he’d be able to make up some story to explain it away, but… Lestrade couldn’t believe that Mycroft expected _this_ to happen.  This was… close to lethal!  Far too close for anyone’s comfort and he refused, absolutely refused, to believe that his artist predicted that the damage he’d endure would approach this level.  He _had_ to believe that or he’d have a hard time keeping the tears off his face.

__________

It took enlisting Sherlock’s rather abrasive and dramatic help to get the ambulance personnel to shelve their questions and they again had to harmonize their position when they got to the A&E, but it was easier this time since Mycroft condition was obviously grave and the details could wait in light of his very pressing need for medical help.  Then, there was nothing to do but wait, not something for which either Sherlock or Lestrade had any particular talent.  However, as the adrenaline began to fade away and the reality of what was staring them in the face for the foreseeable future kicked at their already-bruised minds, each man wilted into a very exhausted and _very_ distraught puddle and sitting quietly without the burden of conversation and activity was surprisingly comforting.

It seemed like hours, and likely was, by the time a young, shortish man in a doctor’s coat peeked into the waiting room and called out Sherlock’s name, causing the younger Holmes and Lestrade leapt up and descended on the poor man like wild dogs on a butcher’s shop.

      “Report.”

      “Oh, don’t you have lovely manners.  You’re the brother, I take it.”

      “My relationship to Mycroft is irrelevant to the details of his current condition.  Now provide an overview of his status or I shall locate someone more competent with whom to speak.”

      “Shut it, Sherlock and let the man actually have a chance to say something.  How is he, doctor?”

The physician looked up at the tall, glaring man front of him and decided that trying to figure him out wasn’t really important right now and probably wouldn’t be a simple thing even if he made the effort, so he turned his attention to the, what he hoped, was the more reasonable of the pair.

      “He’s comfortable, for now.  There were a number of specific traumas we had to treat, including a pneumothorax that was impairing his breathing, along with a few broken ribs. but we’ve got him on some very pleasant painkillers for the moment and he’s getting some rest.  After the rest of the tests come back, I’ll know more.”

      “He’ll be ok, though, won’t he?  He’s not in any danger, right?”

      “That depends on what you mean by danger.  The physical injuries will heal in time, though he won’t be very happy with life for quite awhile as he recovers.  The emotional injuries, however… those aren’t going to heal soon or without a good bit of professional help.  Now, I don’t see any specifics on his chart as to what happened, but I think I have a good idea, so I’ll have someone get the police over to interview him…”

The in-unison NO! made the startled doctor take a step back and reassess the two people he was speaking to.  Lestrade noted the man’s reaction and rushed to explain, only to be beaten to it by Sherlock.

      “Mycroft made it very clear that he is not going to pursue the issue any further and, if he chooses to rethink the situation, Lestrade _is_ a member of the police force and can take up the matter at that time.”

Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that would somehow erase the past few seconds.  Nice of Sherlock to divert traffic without clearing it with him first.

      “Mr. Lestrade is a member of the police force?”

      “Yeah, and I’m Mycroft’s boyfriend.  Look, Doctor…”

      “Watson.”

      “Ok, Doctor Watson, it’s like this… Mycroft is _not_ going to want to see this go forward in an official capacity and…”

      “Is he really the one who wants it dropped or is it you?”

Now it was Sherlock and Lestrade’s turn to take a step back.  The words felt like a slap on both their faces.

      “Are you insane?”

      “No, actually, Mr. Lestrade.  But it’s clear that Mr. Holmes endured a prolonged and violent sexual assault and that can’t be something you’d want making its way through the police’s gossip vine.”

Sherlock was smart enough to grab Lestrade’s arm because that arm would have been hitting its second nose that night in about one second.

      “What in the fuck is wrong with you?  Do you think that matters?  At all?  I have no idea what twisted world you live in, you pitiful excuse for a medic, but if you think for one second I’d let something as meaningless as the lads giggling at me for a couple of weeks affect how I care for Mycroft then you should hand in your fucking stethoscope and see if the local coffee shop is looking for someone to sweep their floors because that’s about all you’re good for.  Here, give me that.  I’ll find someone who actually has a clue about how to be a doctor and talk to them.”

Lestrade ripped the chart out of the man’s hands and stormed away leaving a very confused and chagrined medical practitioner in his wake.

      “I think I upset him.”

      “That was a ludicrously stupid statement.”

      “Which one?”

      “As of now, almost any you have uttered since your arrival.  You truly _are_ incompetent at your craft.”

      “NO!  No… it’s just… look, we see a lot of sexual assault cases and it’s common for the boyfriend, husband, etc. to want to cover up things so, you know, his mates at work don’t find out or the neighbors don’t talk.”

      “So you made assumptions without the benefit of any specific evidence for this particular situation.  Again, I find myself ruminating on the word ‘stupid.’”

      “Ok, so I wasn’t at my best!  It’s been a long night… they always give the new staff the worst jobs and… well, that’s not an excuse but it’s the best I’ve got to offer.”

      “You would do well to make your excuses to Lestrade; he is not in a frame of mind to independently grant forgiveness for your rudeness.”

      “Yeah, I will.  Part of learning the job, I guess… dealing with patients and their families even when you’re tired or hungry or have a flatmate who is a complete nightmare and you’re likely to go home to some bloody party still going on…”

      “You complain a great deal.”

      “That’s the funny part – I usually don’t.  Just caught me on an off night and I _will_ apologize to Mr. Lestrade.  He didn’t deserve my sour mood.”

      “That would be wise.  He… he cares about Mycroft and would take no step that might negatively impact my brother’s welfare.  Truly, Mycroft will not want this matter investigated and I am not at all certain if any charges could actually be brought against the one responsible in any case.”

      “Oh… one of those things.  Was it… was it someone famous or in government or…”

      “I have no idea.  However, Mycroft willingly put himself into the blackguard’s clutches and offered his consent for what he knew would be severe ill-use.”

The blonde doctor stammered a few times trying to form a response and tried to learn from Sherlock’s face if he was telling the truth, but realized quickly that what little they taught him in medical school about reading facial expressions or body language was not going to be of much help.

      “He let someone do that to him?”

      “It is a matter of debate if he was aware of the level of damage he would receive, but yes.  This was not an instance of an individual used against their will.”

      “Whatever the fuck for!  That’s… that’s crazy!”

      “One could argue that Mycroft’s mental faculties are tenuous at best, he is an artist, after all.  However… he sought an expedient way to earn money to settle a debt.  One… one that I accrued.  Mycroft often demonstrates diminished reasoning abilities in matters concerning me, as if I am some child in need of lifelong handholding.”

Sherlock had no idea why he would reveal any of the details of his life to the troublesome doctor to whom he was speaking, let alone something as painful and humiliating as Mycroft’s sacrifices for his welfare, but it flowed out easily and, apparently, without any resistance at each of his formidable mental barriers.

      “He… he let that happen to himself because you were in trouble?”

      “Yes.  So you understand, perhaps, why he would not appreciate police intervention.  It is arguable, perhaps, that a crime _was_ committed, however, the embarrassment of the situation would be overwhelming.  And it would disable him further that Lestrade _would_ be the subject of derision at his work.  Lestrade would not care, I feel certain, but Mycroft would and he would suffer greatly because it.  In all likelihood, his mortification would compel him to sever their relationship, leaving him with only me for support and… that is _not_ a beneficial outcome for my brother.”

The doctor continued to stare at Sherlock after he had finished speaking and knew, absolutely, that he should be calling in the police.  A counselor and a nutritionist, too, because his patient obviously needed psychological assistance for a variety of reasons and his weight, or lack thereof, was more than a little worrying.  But he knew, also absolutely, that he probably wouldn’t do it.  Not the police, at least.  What he _could_ do was see if he could call in some counseling support and keep his patient in a bed for an day or two longer than necessary so he could get some calories into his system.  A nutritionist referral would come with his discharge papers.  It was _not_ proper procedure, but maybe this was an example of where proper procedure wasn’t the best course of treatment for a particular patient.

      “Fine.  I won’t call in the authorities, but I can’t guarantee that someone else won’t; I’ll try to head that off if I can, though.  But you do recognize that he’ll need help, don’t you?  This isn’t something a person gets over easily.”

Sherlock suspected there was some truth to that, but not nearly as much as the doctor believed.

      “You do not know my brother.  He would have analyzed the scenario beforehand and will now accept the impact on his well-being as a logical consequence of his decision.  Further, this… this is not the first time he has had to commit such an insult to his person and, therefore, it is not a new or unique situation.”

      “Oh.  Ok, that makes me feel a hell of a lot worse.  I mean, that’s borderline sectionable!”

      “You are not aware of the details of our lives, doctor, so do not presume to know the actual status of my brother’s mental health.  I may paint an inordinately broad picture, at times, however, there are few in the world with a mind as clear and formidable as Mycroft’s.  What help he does require, Lestrade will be willing and able to provide.”

First do no harm… well, that was bloody difficult if he didn’t have a full picture of the scenario, wasn’t it?  Handling an emergency was one thing since the only bits that mattered were usually right in front of you, but this was something different.  If he was going to be of any help for this very bizarre case, he’d need more information in his pocket.

      “Look, I’ve got a break coming and now’s as good a time as any.  Join me for a coffee?  Maybe tell me a little more about those details of your lives so I can get a better picture of things.  I do want the best possible care for your brother, Mr. Holmes, and the more knowledge I have, the better a job I can do.”

      “Do not call me Mr. Holmes.  That was my father.”

      “Ok… so, Sherlock?”

      “That will suffice.”

      “Good.  I’m John, but the way.”

      “It suits you.”

      “Oh… is that a good thing?”

      “I shall leave that for you to decide.”


	16. Chapter 16

The rage in Lestrade’s mind was slowly ebbing, but it had taken a very long time for that to happen.  How dare that idiot in a doctor’s coat accuse him of trying to deny Mycroft whatever help he needed?  Of wanting to cover it all up like his lover was some kind of shameful secret?  Doctor Watson was bloody lucky that the most important thing on his mind was finding out the facts about Mycroft’s situation and he didn’t have the time to waste pounding the useless medic to a watery pulp.  He _wanted_ to pound someone, and if the next person wasn’t more helpful than that waste of a medical degree, the pounding _would_ begin in earnest.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on perspective, the doctor Lestrade finally found who would take time to speak with him was more sensitive to the situation or just didn’t care because the subject of bringing the police into the matter never arose.  And he surely held nothing back discussing the information presented in the chart, painting a bleaker picture of Mycroft’s physical injuries than the blonde doctor had accomplished.  His artist was _hurt_ … deeply and grievously hurt and he was going to be in pain for a long time.  How was he going to… how was he going to work if he couldn’t easily walk with his supplies because of his knee, not to mention that sitting for long was going to be difficult and that thought alone was making it very difficult to keep Lestrade’s last few meals safely in his stomach.  At least Mycroft’s hands were spared, though.   If his hands were injured or disabled in any way, it was impossible to say what the artist would do and it was already worrying what the man might try when he realized his little secret wasn’t much of a secret anymore.

But Mycroft’s hands _were_ undamaged and Lestrade hoped that little bit of good news might help ease some of his lover’s distress when he woke and found himself in a hospital bed.  For the next few minutes, Lestrade prowled the halls to seek out some plain white paper and all the pencils and pens he could steal so that when Mycroft was awake and aware, he’d have something to occupy himself until someone could go to the flat and get more of his tools or a book.  Actually, Lestrade made himself a promise to get Mycroft a few new books to read while he was here.  Something light and entertaining.  And maybe bring the cards from the flat, too and they could pass the time that way if Mycroft got too tired to draw.  Though how much time he could actually spend here, he’d have to work out.  As it was, he’d had to call in sick today and that wasn’t something looked upon highly if it happened often.  Maybe he could apply for a short leave, but… no.  It would be unpaid and he absolutely needed every penny of pay he could get right now.  He’d figure it out.  Somehow, he’d find a way to make sure Mycroft was looked after and keep his job and watch that Sherlock didn’t do something idiotic and… find some way to earn the portion of Mycroft’s earnings he’d stupidly refunded to that fucking sadist.  That was dim.  That was the most dimwitted thing he could have done, but no use looking backward when he had a pile of troubles in front of him.

Passing the hospital cafeteria, Lestrade nearly dropped Mycroft’s impromptu art supplies seeing Sherlock seated at one of the tables across from the horrid doctor with the very poundable head.  And he was… well, not smiling, but not scowling either.  Sharing coffee or tea with the enemy, how lovely.  But, Sherlock wasn’t really the type to have a nice warm beverage with someone who… well, with anyone, so Lestrade straightened his shoulders and strode towards the table, hoping to get some reason not to push the now-smiling doctor’s teeth down his throat.

      “Ah, Lestrade.  Were you able to find anyone in this chamber of horrors who could provide a halfway intelligent answer to your likely poorly worded and borderline incoherent questions?”

      “Shut it, you arrogant sod.  And yes, I did.  We’ll… we’ll talk later.  There’s going to have to be… we’ll have to get some kind of schedule together to look after Mycroft and…”

      “You will take whatever you police term the day shift and stay with Mycroft at night.  I shall do the reverse.”

The PC stared at the younger man and actually marveled that Sherlock had already given this some thought.

      “Sherlock, you have classes; you can’t…”

      “The term is nearly at an end.  I can persuade the dusty skeletons who stand behind the lecterns to allow me to take my examinations early so that I can dispense with their nonsense for the time being and focus my attention on my research, which I prefer to conduct at night anyway.”

      “Do you really think you can do that?”

      “I am not ill-equipped to affect a distraught presentation when I plead my case and John will provide me with the proper paperwork to demonstrate the need for me to provide care for my brother.”

Lestrade stared at John, who was not happy to find himself blushing under the scrutiny.

      “You’d do that?”

      “I would.  It’s not really a deception as it would benefit Mr. Holmes greatly if he had someone available at any hour right now to keep an eye on him.  And I’m not giving him a note to _excuse_ him from his exams, which was what he wanted in the first place.”

Good to know Sherlock gave it a try, at least.  He would have at that age.

      “Well then… thank you.  And I’ll talk to my superiors about getting my shift stabilized at least for the time being.  It shouldn’t be too hard, though I’ll probably have to pull nothing but nights for who knows how long once Mycroft’s better.  And I have to squeeze in some kind of side work to put extra cash in our pockets.  I don’t think Mycroft’s going to be out earning anything for awhile and with the expenses of… well, of certain things…”

      “John is aware of the situation and knows the extent of my monetary issues.”

That was unexpected.  Lestrade had to wonder just what these two had been talking about during their little tea break.

      “You told him?”

      “It seemed prudent since he shall be assisting us in keeping Mycroft’s circumstances from the authorities.  I have informed him of my upcoming court appearance and the latest drain on what apparently is now our combined finances.”

Now that _was_ a turn of events.  Lestrade continued to stare at the increasingly uncomfortable doctor and wondered how in the world the man had gotten the younger Holmes to air his dirty laundry.  But, it did seem to have taken some of the smugness out of the young man he was glaring at, so well done Sherlock.  And it would be interesting to see if this bit of camaraderie was ever repeated.  The little doctor was a prick, but if Sherlock was willing to talk to him, that could be an avenue for the lad to get some additional support of his own.  Lestrade would do everything _he_ could, but Sherlock having his own contact to talk to would be beneficial in the long run.

      “Alright then.  Look, I’m going to go and sit with Mycroft.  The doctor I spoke to said he’d probably be asleep for awhile, so why don’t you go and get some rest.”

Lestrade dug in his pocket and took out his key.

      “Use my flat.  There’s food in the refrigerator and clean sheets in the closet in the bedroom.  I’m not working today, but I’m back on tomorrow morning.  So long as I can get a few hours of sleep at some point, I’ll be alright, so take the day to do what you have to.  When do you have to turn that money over?”

Sherlock reached out and took the key, placing it in his pocket before taking a long sip of his drink.

      “The day after tomorrow.  Perhaps the next day, if I can make a convincing argument that I needed the extra time.”

      “No, you’ll have it by when you need it.  I’ll… somehow I’ll get to the bank and draw out what you’re short.  We _cannot_ have you seeing interest added onto that debt.”

Sherlock nodded, but remained silent and it was John that spoke up to fill the gap.

      “I… I can sit with Mr. Holmes if you need to run to the bank.  My shift ends in a few hours and I can stay on a little longer so you can get your business done.  Actually I usually end up staying longer, so I’d likely be here anyway when banker’s hours start. It’s the least I can do for being rude.  And I _am_ sorry for that… I can see I was very wrong in my assumptions.”

Well, Doctor Watson might not be as much of a prick as Lestrade thought.  Or, at least, he was a prick with a conscience.

      “That’s nice of you, Doctor Watson.  And I accept your apology.  Let me know when you get off and I’ll pop out for a moment.  Hate to keep you too long after the whistle blows; I’m sure you’ll be ready for your own bed by then.”

Lestrade finally smiled at the blonde doctor and turned it towards Sherlock before heading towards the serving area to get his own cup of tea before settling in to stand guard over his lover.  Not that Mycroft was in any further danger, but the urge to be the sword at the door was too strong to ignore.  His artist was hurt and vulnerable and it was _his_ job to make sure no one did anything to hurt him further.  And the time would do him some good, as well.  He needed to think, to plan, to assess.  He had money to raise, a shit excuse for a human to punish and a lover to convince that he wasn’t going to live in that barely-a-flat flat anymore.  Even if it meant having Sherlock sleep on the sofa or finding a new place altogether with two bedrooms, Mycroft Holmes was not setting foot back in that unheated cell ever again.

__________

      “Mr. Lestrade?  Any time you’re ready, I can sit with Mr. Holmes.”

Lestrade looked up from the book he’d actually found abandoned in the waiting room and gave a tired grin to John.

      “Call me Greg.  And thanks, he doesn’t seem ready to wake up and the bank will be opening… soon.  Just enough time to get over there and maybe stop at the flat for a quick shower.  I won’t be more than an hour if that’s ok.  If not, I can skip the shower and…”

      “No, that’ll be fine.  I brought some paperwork that I have to do anyway and it’s actually easier to do it here.  My flat’s not the quietest place in the world.”

      “Thanks.  I’ll stop on the way back and pick up something to eat, so you’ll at least get fed for your troubles.”

Lestrade stood up and leaned over to place a very gentle kiss on Mycroft’s forehead.

      “I’ll be back soon, love.  Don’t give the doctor any trouble.”

With a quick nod to John, the PC left Mycroft in what he hoped was good hands and John took the vacated seat, readying himself in to get some work accomplished.

      “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Holmes.  Greg obviously cares for you deeply and that’s something you can count on, which is something very, very precious.  Now, when you wake up, maybe you can tell me how you found someone like him, because I’m certainly not having any luck doing it on my own…”

__________

Lestrade gulped as he saw the ending balance on his account after his withdrawal, but the only important thing was that he _did_ have enough money and he could always earn more.  Christmas was going to be lean this year, though, not that it mattered.  Actually, just the thought of Christmas with Mycroft was a gift all on its own.  He never really decorated, but they could probably find something to do with the place to make it festive.  Mycroft could likely paint some holiday pieces and they could use those, along with some lights.  Or nothing.  Maybe just the two of them wrapped up in a thick blanket… yes, Sherlock would probably be wrapped up in a second blanket glaring at them and complaining about what was on the telly… enjoying their first Christmas together in his little undecorated flat.  Or part of Christmas since there was zero possibility he’d have the holiday free.  Maybe, though, he’d get a few hours on the day itself and if not, they’d have something the day before or after and that was ok.  Anything was ok as long as they were sharing the time with each other.

Of course, this was providing he could drag Mycroft out of that tiny flat of his.  The artist may not consider himself a proud man in some ways, but he was daft.  He was one of the most prideful people Lestrade had ever met and this battle wouldn’t be won easily, that much he already knew.  But losing was _not_ an option.  His Mycroft deserved everything he could give him, even if that was only a warm place to live and something on the table at meal times.  They wouldn’t live like kings, but they’d be together and have a chance to build something that not everyone had.  Something that was real and meant something and would last.  Money was great, but it didn’t make you laugh or hold your hand when you were out walking on a cold night and those were the things that were the most important in life.  His artist working on is art, him working on the streets keeping them safe, then coming to their own home to celebrate their successes and commiserate over their failures… they’d build a life and they’d do it _together_.  That was the key.

Lestrade nudged open the door of his flat and listened to the silence.  A quick check in the refrigerator found that his remaining take-away containers were no longer among the living and a peek into the bedroom found a tousle of hair peering out from under the blankets.  Sherlock was still asleep and Lestrade was glad for it.  He needed the rest.  There was no denying that this had been hard for the boy, not only the past night, but the days and nights leading up to it.  It must have been terrible wondering about Mycroft’s situation, knowing whatever was happening was his fault.  Lestrade wouldn’t dwell on the fact that Sherlock hadn’t come to him sooner, that was water under the bridge, but he would have liked to have, at minimum, been someone Sherlock could have talked to during that time.  Someone to offer some support, even if he wasn’t being allowed to go out on the hunt for the older Holmes.

Lestrade took his money out of his wallet and laid it on the table along with an explanatory note, then jumped into the shower for a quick scrub off, quietly getting clothes out of his room without waking Sherlock and was finally out the door and feeling a lot better physically and mentally.  One Holmes was in good shape, the other was at least safe and breakfast was a few minutes away.  Right now, he’d call himself happy and try to keep that feeling so he could smile when Mycroft first opened his eyes.  One big smile on his face so his artist knew from the moment those gorgeous eyes opened that everything was alright.  Alright with his health and alright with _them_.  Mycroft was going to struggle with that, he was absolutely certain, and he was ready for that fight.  Wherever the rage he’d expected to be experiencing if Mycroft worked his side trade was hiding he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t angry.  Maybe it would come later, but it wasn’t here now.  Right now, he was just relieved.  Well, relieved and scared and protective and, if possible, deeper in whatever feeling he had for the artist than he was before.  Mycroft was willing to put his flesh and soul on the line for his brother’s sake and that was noble.  Noble and loving, though it was also incredibly stupid and he was going to get an arse-kicking if he ever tried to do this sort of thing again, and who couldn’t... care for... a noble and loving man.  Care for... that was going to be the words for now.  Once Mycroft was awake and healed up, they could maybe talk about other words that were better.  Later.  And only when Mycroft was ready.  Which might take awhile...

__________

John looked up when he heard the noise next to him and was surprised that so little time had passed since he was left to watch the man in the bed.  But the noise was accompanied by the smell of decent coffee, so the morning was looking up.

      “How’s he doing?”

      “Same as when you left.  He should be out for a little while longer, but we’ve got him on some decent painkillers, so he may be a little fuzzy even when he wakes up.  We could see some confusion and thick-headedness for a bit once he’s awake, but not every patient goes through that, so we’ll take things as they come.  Now, what miraculous delicacies are hiding in those bags?”

      “Things with lots of starch and sugar.  Bit of grease, too.”

      “Breakfast of champions.”

      “Cop fuel.  Just add coffee and you’re ready to take on the world.”

      “Doctor fuel, too.  Did Sherlock get his share?  It’s credible student fuel, also.”

      “Nah, he raided my refrigerator and killed my Chinese.  Knocked him right out, too.  Sleeping Beauty is currently indulging in my bed, so he’s the comfiest of all of us right now.”

      “That’s good.  He needed it and… really, is it as bad as Sherlock was describing?  What he experiences at home, I mean?”

Lestrade handed over the doctor’s coffee and bag of breakfast and took a seat in the second empty chair by Mycroft’s bed.

      “Well, if Sherlock said it was bad he wasn’t lying.  Not like living rough, but they’ve got a tiny flat, with no heat, no hot water and I noticed some water staining around the window, so I think it leaks when we get a good rain.  They live off of Mycroft’s earnings from his art, which isn’t much, and eat when they can.  Mycroft is a goddam martyr and sacrifices his own well-being to give Sherlock a better shot at a comfortable life, but it doesn’t mean Sherlock’s flush with wealth because of it.  Did he... did he touch on the drugs at all?”

      “Yes, not that I was happy to hear that since I’m not certain he’s a qualified person to take care of my patient when he’s discharged.  And I’m not at all happy about sending Mr. Holmes home to an overall environment like that.”

      “He’s not going back to their flat.  I’m not sure what he’s got for a lease, but he’s not going back.  Mycroft’s coming home with me.  My flat at least has heat and there’s food in the cupboard.”

      “That’s good. He’s going to need a place where he feels secure and has at least the basic amenities to support his recovery.  Can I ask... you made it sound as if he was never going back to their flat.  Will you be living together now on a permanent basis?”

Once the dust settled and the weapons were sheathed, yes.

      “That’s what I want and I think, in a way, he does, too.”

      “In a way?  That’s not very convincing.”

      “Yeah, I get that... it’s like this.  I think Mycroft wants what I want, in fact I know he does, but he just doesn’t think he deserves it.  And it’s going to be a bigger struggle now to convince him he _does_ deserve it after this disaster.  He’ll be even harder on himself and I’m going be knocking my head against a wall trying to get him to understand what’s really going on.  That he’s more than good enough, that he deserves more than what he has, that he doesn’t have to keep punishing himself to keep them afloat...”

      “Do you think that’s a factor?  _Is_ he punishing himself?”

      “I don’t want to think that, but, if I’m honest, I have to say that I do.  He cares so much about his brother and I know for certain he thinks he’s failed Sherlock every step of the way and he takes that hard.”

      “Does he think he’s failed you?”

      “Before, I don’t know.  Now, absolutely.  I don’t even have to talk to him to know that’s true.  He’s going to snap when he sees me here and is going to want to crawl away into some corner to die.  Not that I’m going to let him, but it’s going to be a big issue.  He and I are going to have to have a lot of discussions about things and I’m going to have to buy a dictionary because half of the words he’ll probably throw at me I won’t understand, but I don’t care.  I’m going to make him see that he’s a person who is worthwhile and valuable and deserves every chance to be happy.  I know he thinks he’s failed Sherlock and somehow is responsible for this whole situation and I know he believes he’s failed me by letting himself get used like this.  I don’t see it that way, though, and I’m going to do everything I can to actually get him to see it my way and pull himself out of his own bloody head.”

      “That’s important, because you’re right.  Even for people who are abused against their will, they view themselves as failing their loved ones and this situation is far more conductive to laying self-blame on a person’s shoulders.  I have to say, Greg, you seem like you’ve got a practical outlook about this and that’s going to be very helpful in both the short and long term.  I guess, though, you _have_ to be pretty practical to be a policeman.”

      “It does help.  I don’t have any illusions about this and I came into my relationship with Mycroft with my eyes open. I know he’s not perfect, but neither am I, so who am I to judge?  I don’t think we’ll have some fairytale romance and never fight or disagree, but he’s the one I want and I know we can be good together.  We _are_ good together; I just have to get him to understand that I really believe that’s the case, even now.”

      “Well, you’ll have time to start those discussions, because he’ll sort of be limited in getting around for some time.  He tries to run away, you won’t have any problem catching him.”

Letrade let his first laugh since they’d found Mycroft ring out and decided that the doctor was making points towards coming completely off the prick list.

      “That’s good because with those long legs, he probably normally runs like a gazelle.  But... since we’re on that topic, everything’s ok for him to do his art, right?  No knocks to the head to mess up his vision or problems with his hands I didn’t notice?  His art really is his life – I know you hear people say something is their life, but it’s really true for him.”

      “I didn’t notice any problems with his head, but those might not be visible.  He’ll get another thorough examination once he’s awake and can answer questions, so if there are any hidden issues, we’ll find out about them at that time.  His hands are ok, though.  I actually wondered about that when he was brought in.”

      “I’d wager he negotiated it.  There was no way Mycroft would let anyone do anything to his hands, so he probably had that right in whatever contract or agreement they had.  That will be one thing that will make him happy, though.  He won’t be able to get out and do his work, but he can at least stay at the flat and work on a painting.”

      “That’s something else that will be helpful.  That he has a specific thing that’s important to him to focus on is going to benefit him a great deal.  It’s a quiet activity, too, which is good.  And... well art is expressive and reflective and he’ll need some mechanism for self-reflection as he works through this experience.”

      “That’s true.  It’ll be interesting to see what he creates over the next few months and he’ll be able to really work on his pieces, too, since he won’t have to worry about going out to earn a wage or keeping his eye on Sherlock quite so much.”

      “Is Sherlock moving in with you, too?”

      “I suppose so.  I don’t know.  I’m just trying to keep myself one step ahead of it all right now and take it a minute at a time.”

Lestrade didn’t like being scrutinized by his breakfast companion, but if the doctor was trying to better understand their situation then he’d suffer the scrutiny.  Any information had to be useful at this point, even if was information about _him_.

      “You’re taking a lot on yourself.”

Well, there was no way he could deny that fact.  It was completely true, but it was something he wasn’t doing willingly and gladly. 

      “I know.  Believe me, I absolutely do know that.  It’s going to be on me to help Mycroft and watch Sherlock and get the bills paid and put food in people’s mouths, but it’s not any different than the others I work with who are supporting a family on a PC’s salary.  It’ll be tough, but it _can_ be done and when Mycroft is able to get back to work, he’ll add to the accounts.  But I don’t really care if he goes back out to draw; I’d be perfectly happy if he just stayed at home and worked on his art, but he’d never agree to that.  And I would never tell him he couldn’t do something that he wanted to do.  Well, with one exception, but that’s a conversation I don’t want to have right now and if I do things right it won’t ever be an issue again, anyway.”

John opened his mouth to respond, but faint noises from the bed got both men’s attentions and, as Mycroft’s eyes fluttered, the doctor waved at Lestrade to stay back while he approached his stirring patient with a comforting smile on his face.

      “Mr. Holmes?  Are you ready to open your eyes for awhile?”

Lestrade watched Mycroft blink a few more times then finally keep his eyes open and they quickly found the source of the voice.

      “Hello.  I’m Doctor Watson and I’ll be looking in on you.”

Mycroft looked past the man in the doctor’s coat and took in his surroundings, missing Lestrade who was in the opposite direction and remaining very still and silent.

      “I’m in hospital?”

      “Very good.  And we’re going to take excellent care of you, so don’t worry about a thing.”

John watched his patient struggle with his confusion and he was glad he’d gotten the whole story, painful as it had been.  It would save him any foot-in-mouth mistakes as he’d made with Lestrade and his patient was in too fragile a state to suffer any mishaps along those lines.

      “I don’t… how?”

      “Here, love.  Over here.”

Lestrade reached over and gently tapped Mycroft’s shoulder, then watched his lover’s head slowly turn to focus on the new voice in his ears.

      “Gregory?”

      “Yeah, it’s me.”

      “No.”

      “It’s ok, Mycroft.”

      “No… no you were not supposed to…”

      “I know, love.  I do.  It’s ok.”

John thought for a moment about asking Lestrade to leave to spare his patient the obviously-increasing agitation he was experiencing, but this was the person who would have to take care of him and that might as well begin now.

      “I’ll leave you two alone.  Greg, I’ll be back when my shift starts, but if you need anything they can page me.  Mycroft, you try and get some rest and do _not_ become overly excited.  Everyone here is on your team and is dedicated to doing everything possible to help you heal up good as new.  So no giving Greg here an earful, ok?”

John gave his most winning smile, knowing it was doing just about nothing to help with Mycroft’s anxiety.  Tonight, he would get some time alone with his patient so they could have their own talk.  Often a neutral third party could provide the necessary sounding board to let the blackest emotions start to trickle out.  Then, picking up the remains of his meal, John gave Lestrade a nod and Mycroft one last smile and started on his way home, praying that his flatmate was gone for the day or at least passed out drunk so he could actually get some sleep.

      “Mycroft?  Look at me… no, don’t cry.  It’s alright, I promise you.”

      “Leave.”

      “There’s no chance of that happening.”

      “I… I don’t want you here.”

      “Maybe you don’t, but I’m still not leaving.”

Lestrade plucked a tissue out of the box on the small stand by the bed and leaned over to wipe the stray bits of moisture from Mycroft’s face.

      “I know you’re upset, Mycroft.  I know you feel all sorts of evil things about yourself right now and I didn’t expect anything different.  But those aren’t the things _I_ feel about you, so I’ll be staying right here and looking out for you.  It’s what I want to do, love.  What you need and what you deserve.  Of course, you’ll have to suffer Sherlock tomorrow when I’m back in uniform, but he’ll do a good job.  Lad really stepped up with this and you’d be proud of him.  I know _I_ am.”

      “Sherlock… knows?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened and with the heavy shine they were sporting, Lestrade thought they looked like large and beautiful jewels, glittering in the rain.

      “Helped me find you, actually.  He got worried and came to see me, though it took him some time to work up the nerve to do it, which I can’t blame him for.  And he had some ideas about where to start looking, which was really the key to finding you.  Once we followed that lead, we got the information about where you were and took it from there.  Sherlock’s actually could be a good investigator if he could only keep his impulsiveness in check.  And learn how to handle the public.”

Lestrade wiped Mycroft’s face again because his artist showed no signs of being able to stop the tears from flowing.  All his life, Mycroft had tried to protect Sherlock in every way, with Sherlock realizing as little of it as possible and now that was crumbling around him.

      “I do not… he must not come here.”

      “That’s just silly.  He knows, Mycroft.  He _saw_ and he knows.  He helped me get you out of that damned torture chamber and the only reason he’s not here right now is that I sent him to my flat to get some food and some sleep.  You can’t hide anything from him, because he already knows everything.  Where you got the job, how much you got paid, what you did… what you allowed to be done… so he could get himself out of his jam.  It’s all out in the open, so don’t even try to protect him from the truth; he already knows it.”

Lestrade hated the anguish on his artist’s face and the guilt and self-loathing behind it but… they would work on it.  Time was one resource they had in abundance, so it didn’t matter how long it took to help Mycroft through this.  It _would_ be alright in the end.

      “How…”

      “Yes?”

      “How can you be here?  You see…. and you know and yet you are here.  You have no obligation to fulfill and… you should be elsewhere!  Please… do not dirty yourself with me, Gregory.  I could… I could not bear that.”

Even though he was ready for it, hearing Mycroft say such things felt like a knife in Lestrade’s chest.

      “Oh, I’m going to dirty myself up good and proper with you, Mycroft Holmes.  Just like we’ve been doing.  I’m going to get dirty and sweaty and sticky just as soon as we’ve got you back on your feet.  I’m not ashamed of you, Mycroft.  I’m not repulsed or disgraced or anything you probably think.  I don’t feel any less for you now than I did before.  I just wish you weren’t so pigheaded about trying to carry the whole planet on your shoulders without help, but we’re going to work on that.  I’m going to show you how to let someone help carry the weight and we’ll carry it together from now on.”

      “No… I am not worth that.  I shall _never_ be worth that.”

      “I tell you what.  You go on believing what you want and I’ll do the same.  You’re worth the world to me, love.  You’re the person I want to wake up to in the morning and kiss goodnight before bed.  Of course, with my schedule that could get flipped a lot of the time, but you get the idea.  I want you in my robe doing your magic in the kitchen and I want the flat to smell of paint and I want all that gorgeous skin laid out naked in the bed for me to touch and kiss and… damn.  I know it’s wrong to be getting excited with you all mangled, but just picturing you in my head sends my blood racing.  I’m sitting here with bits of me starting to stand up and take notice and what you went through isn’t making one bit of difference.  And none of that even approaches all the things I believe and want, Mycroft.  You are worth more than you can imagine to me and that _isn’t_ going to change.”

Lestrade could see that Mycroft was fighting believing what he was saying, but that wasn’t a problem.  Breath was as free as time, so he had no problem telling his artist over and over just how special he was.  Someday it would sink back into his head…

      “How about this?  For now, let’s leave it at I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.  Tomorrow, Sherlock’s taking a shift while I work and I’ll take over again at night.  I promise you, Mycroft… neither of us is going to turn our backs on you, even if you sort of wish that _would_ happen.  You’re important to us and we want you right there caught up our lives and part of our future.  I need you like that, actually.  Honestly, Mycroft, I can’t see myself being happy if you’re not with me – that’s not changed in the slightest.”

A few fingers trailed upwards across Mycroft’s cheek and threaded lightly through his hair and as his artist continued to weep, Lestrade let a private, inner smile flit across his mind.  No, he couldn’t be happy with anyone else.  This man was far too precious and unique and perfect… now, he just had to get Mycroft to realize that, too…


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft had periods of wakefulness all day long, but he spent them simply staring at the ceiling or at a wall and, beyond their first words, he and Lestrade shared nothing in the way of conversation by the time Sherlock arrived that evening.  But that was fine with the PC.  Let Mycroft live in his brain for awhile; let him work through things himself for the time being.  It was enough that when he reached over and took Mycroft’s hand, Mycroft didn’t pull it back.

      “Has he wakened?”

      “Sherlock!  Yeah, quite a few times, actually, but scattered about here and there and not for very long, either.  He lasted longest this morning when John was here.”

      “What is his state of mind?”

      “Exactly what you would expect.  Pick any negative emotion and he’s drowning in it.  He won’t talk to me right now, but maybe he’ll do better with you.  How’d your day go?”

Sherlock stared at his sleeping brother and mentally flicked a little switch to shut off whichever of his own emotions were hesitantly trying to stand up to be explored.  He had no time for that now.  He had no _desire_ for that now.

      “I delivered the money and that issue may be considered closed.  I also made arrangements for my classes, though I shall have to write papers, in addition to taking my exams, for two professors who were not pleased with my request.”

      “That won’t take _you_ long and you know it.”

      “True, but it is a bother nonetheless.”

Sherlock would not admit to the small twinge of pride from the acknowledgment of his academic abilities, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.  With Lestrade, at least, it was not tinged with an ugly envy as it was with those who shared his lecture rooms.

      “Regardless… thanks.  It’s going to mean a lot to him.”

      “I think it will simply add to his current burden of guilt, actually.”

Ok, so Lestrade was thinking that, too, but Sherlock didn’t have to go around preaching the truth _all_ the time, did he?

      “Yes, you’re probably right, but that’s not all of it.  It _will_ mean a lot to him, even if it’s mixed in with other things.  And we’re going to have to deal with it all, somehow… the good and the bad.  I have to ask, though… are you up for this?  He’s going to hurt, in every way, for a long time and that’s not something that’s easy to face for the long term.”

Sherlock was completely at a loss for how was he supposed to answer that question?  He had no idea if he was ‘up’ for this!  There was no precedent in his experience for this particular scenario and he certainly was not sorry for it.  It shifted the paradigm he and Mycroft had crafted over their lives and he had no means to assess how he would manage his new responsibilities. It was not for _him_ to tend to his brother; had never been and both had acknowledged that fact.  It was not on his shoulders to protect his brother or care for his needs.  Mycroft… Mycroft had ensured he would never have experience in this and now… well, it was not as if there was a choice in the matter.  There was no one else, besides Lestrade, who would take up the task.  At least, however, there _was_ Lestrade.  If this had happened before his brother had secured his relationship with the policeman… and it was not at all unlikely that it would have… no, it did not bear contemplation.  The outcome of Mycroft and he navigating this alone was easily calculable and he refused to allow the proper formulas to take root in his mind or he would be even less able to respond to Lestrade’s question.

      “It is a pointless thing to ask.  Mycroft will require assistance and that is the only relevant factor to consider.  Whether I feel prepared to provide that assistance is immaterial.  I _will_ have to provide it nonetheless.”

      “If… I mean if you think this’ll be too much for you, I’ll understand.  I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I’ll find someone to keep an eye on Mycroft when I have to work.  Maybe that doctor needs a little extra money and I can pay him…”

      “You are making the air unbreatheable with the stench of your yammering.  Setting aside the fact that you are incapable of offering payment to any child minder for my brother, I am accountable for his situation and shall pay that obligation in full.”

Well, that wasn’t quite the way Lestrade hoped to hear it, but at least he could rest easy knowing Sherlock _would_ be there for Mycroft.  He hadn’t doubted that Sherlock would want to, but wanting to and being able to were two completely different things.

      “Ok.  Stepping down from yammering.  And that’s good to know.  Really good to know.  Not that I didn’t know already, but it’s good to hear.  I’ll admit that I’m barely staying ahead of the landslide right now and it helps to hear I’m not the only one trying to hold back the rocks.”

And along that line…

      “And that’ll make this bit easier, maybe.  Look, Sherlock… Mycroft can’t go back to your flat.  When he gets out of here, he’s going to need a place that’s warm and comfortable and he has a bed to sleep in every night.”

Sherlock scrutinized the PC but, honestly, had no idea what he was looking for.

      “You want to move him to your flat.”

      “Want to and need to.  Doctor Watson agrees that your flat won’t be good for him while he recovers and, well, I don’t have much to offer, but I can make sure he’s got the basics, the simple things he needs, while he’s getting better.  I’d already told him he could use my place as a studio when he wanted to and this…”

      “Please do not imply that you are affecting some form of modified space-use arrangement.  You desire my brother in your life and hope that he would choose to cohabitate even if the situation were not as it is.”

Well, that wasn’t going to be part of his argument, but now that Sherlock had laid those cards on the table for him…

      “Ok… you’re right.  I would have asked him to move in at some point anyway, when I was sure he knew it wasn’t out of pity for that rathole you two have been living in.  I won’t lie about that.  And he knows it, too.  He knows what it meant when I gave him my key – it was an open offer for whenever he wanted to make things more permanent.  If all of this hadn’t happened, it would probably have been awhile before he’d have taken me up on it, though…. you know how he is.  How he thinks.  The… _things_ … rolling around in his head.  Now, though, we don’t have the option of letting him work through his issues in his own time.”

      “You said ‘we.’  I take it you want me to offer my assistance to your cause.”

      “That’s part of it.  I probably will need you to back me up for this because… we’ve got a huge uphill battle ahead of us, Sherlock.  But, that’s not all of it.  You shouldn’t live in that flat, either.  It can’t be a good thing for you and your studies.  It’s not healthy; it can’t be.”

Sherlock’s incredulous expression told Lestrade the boy had not considered that option.  And it made the PC sad that Sherlock hadn’t.  When you assume you’re going to be left out of things, it’s because you usually _are_ left out of things and Lestrade had to wonder just what Uni life was like for the boy.

      “You… you want me to relocate, as well?”

      “Yeah, I do.  Maybe right now, all I can give you is the sofa, but it’s not a bad sofa.  I’ve slept plenty of nights on it when I just dropped after a long day and it’s not bad at all.  But, we can also start looking for different place with a second bedroom as soon as Mycroft is a little stronger.  I’m not going to bring Mycroft home with me and leave you behind, Sherlock.  I would never do that.”

Sherlock tried desperately to understand the man in front of him.  He could fathom the need for Mycroft to require better accommodations than theirs during his recuperation and he could further fathom the desire for the constable to want to keep his romantic interest close at hand for gratification of his sexual desires and need for affection, but the rest… the unconditional caring, the concern, the sacrifices… it was difficult to comprehend.  Especially when a portion of that had been doled out to him and he had scarcely been cordial to the man!

      “I do not know what to say.”

      “You don’t have to say anything right now.  Mycroft won’t get out of here for a couple of days at least and you can think about it while he’s getting his legs back under him.  Ultimately, though, it’s your choice.  I can’t make you come and live with me… us… and wouldn’t want you to if you were really opposed to the idea.  But, I hope you do.  There’s room, even right now, and I’d be glad to have you around.  The flat can get a little lonely with just me puttering about and what’s better than good company around the dinner table?”

Provided he could find dinner for that table, that is.  Lestrade ran through his memory for a list of his colleagues he could talk to that did a little work on the side.  He’d need something to add a few notes to his wages and who better to know the options but others on the force in a similar situation.  Even a couple of hours a day washing dishes or stocking shelves would help, as long as he could get the schedule he needed so he could do his part for Mycroft’s care.

      “I… I will consider your offer.”

      “Good.  I’m glad.  I really am.  Now, it’s early yet… you can go off and do your science stuff or get some more sleep if you’d like.  I’m actually not bad off here and can grab a few hours rest before I have to leave in the morning…”

      “And if you are sacked because you cannot adequately perform your duties, how will that benefit Mycroft?”

Well, that wasn’t fair, being all rational and reasonable.

      “Sherlock, I’m just saying…”

      “It is enough that Mycroft fancies himself a martyr; I do not have the fortitude to endure another.”

And that put an end to Lestrade’s argument.  Not that Sherlock was right, but because… ok, maybe the lad _did_ have a point.  If he didn’t keep himself in shape, this was going to go sideways fast and he couldn’t allow that.  Mycroft and Sherlock were depending on him and he couldn’t let them down by driving himself too hard.

      “Fine then.  How about I get us a bite to eat and then you can go off and do a few hours of your work…”

      “My research does not require my attention at the moment and I need no sleep until tomorrow night at the earliest, so there is no reason for you to continue lingering like a stray dog hoping for a bone.  And if you are attempting to avoid leaving Mycroft out of some sense of obligation, I would advise you to reconsider.  He will not appreciate being overly mothered, in fact, it will exacerbate his sense of being burdensome.”

It wasn’t obligation.  It was… how do you walk away from the person you… oh, fuck it… the person you love, when they’re in that condition?  How do you leave them in anyone else’s hands but yours?  Especially now when that person was so hurt and damaged and exposed and needed so much?  It felt absolutely wrong to be anywhere but here even though he knew he couldn’t stand watch every minute of every day.  Which was really the only thing Lestrade wanted to do.

      “I don’t feel obligated, you prat.  I feel… I want to be a body between him and the world, ok?  He needs that right now and I can’t… it’s bloody hard _not_ be that body every moment I possibly can.”

Sherlock reflected on Lestrade’s words and actions, recent and past, and was proud of himself that he was able to recognize  what was the impetus for the PC’s behavior.

      “Does Mycroft know how you feel about him?  And do not insult me by insinuating that you do not know precisely what I mean.”

Oh wonderful – _that_ talk.  Lestrade could have gone quite a long time without having _that_ talk.

      “I don’t know for certain.  I think he does, though.  Mycroft’s not stupid and I haven’t exactly been subtle about it, I guess.”

      “No, you haven’t.  It would be difficult to find anyone as pathetically obvious in their intentions as you.”

      “Thanks for that.  I feel so tingly when you shower me with compliments.  It’s just… I’ve just never felt this way about anyone and it’s hard not to… not to _be_ pathetically obvious.”

      “Then consider yourself a success.  However, it might provide you with a rationale when Mycroft questions your actions.”

      “Which he’s already started.”

      “And _will_ continue.”

      “Not a problem.  I told him that no matter how much he questions or doubts or worries or thinks bad things about himself, I’m not going anywhere.”

      “Hmmm…. for any other individual, I would assume your gesture would be a comforting one, but Mycroft defies predictions based on standard parameters for human behavior.  It is hard to know what he is making of your behaviors.”

      “Actually, you’re only partly right.  He’s off his nut for some things, but this… this is exactly what I’d predict he’d do.  It’s what anyone would do, really; Doctor Watson said so, too.  But, you’re probably right that he won’t be comforted, at first.  He doesn’t want me here at all, actually, and I can only hope that when he realizes I’m not lying about what I told him, he’ll start to hold on that and use it to help pull himself out of this cesspool.  I think part of it is that he’s not going to trust that I’m sincere until… well, until he _does_ trust that I’m sincere.  That I’m here because I care and not for any sense of obligation or pity and that might take time.”

      “I agree.  However, I do not believe it will take as long as you fear.  He reciprocates your feelings, though I assume he will not, for the moment, allow you to know that fact.”

      “He… he does.  All of… I mean, the part about… bollocks!  You know what I mean.”

      “If you are asking if Mycroft loves you, then I must say I am convinced it is the case.  As much as his emotionally-stunted mind can permit, of course.”

Well now… that was a useful thing to know.  Not that Lestrade wasn’t already fairly confident about the fact, but he couldn’t deny that his own wants might be clouding his thinking.  And Sherlock wouldn’t say it, if he didn’t actually believe it to be true.  The lad was definitely not one for the pretty, happy lie.  So… ok.  Really, ok.  Not that any more motivation was needed to make him want to take care of Mycroft, but he wouldn’t deny the little extra pep in his heartbeat from this new piece of information.

      “Be nice, Sherlock.  Not too nice, though, because you’re right – if we’re too nice or smothery he’s going to get upset.  But, try to at least keep it to a simmer and not a boil with the insults.  Well, since I can’t really do anything here and you’re alright staying, I guess I’ll go home.  If you need me, just call, no matter how late.  And you can phone this number tomorrow if there’s an emergency and someone will get a message to me.”

Lestrade wrote down his contact information for Sherlock and smiled as he handed it over.

      “Good night, Sherlock.  And thanks.  For everything.”

Sherlock scowled at the smiling PC and was very content when Lestrade turned and walked towards home.  Which was now a term of some complexity.  Home.  Not that he minded taking his leave of the horrid flat in which they had been living like the indigents, but to take up residence with Lestrade?  He could not argue that Mycroft required an amenable place to heal and there was no doubt that the affections between him and the PC would be beneficial to that healing, but how would _he_ fit into the equation?  From one standpoint he had no objection to sharing a flat with the couple.  Lestrade’s sofa was equally comfortable as their bed in the flat and the amenities the older man’s home offered were very agreeable.  From another standpoint, however, having to endure the ever-present lust pheromones, besotted looks and smiles… the choking effect of their regard was going to be difficult to endure.  For now, he would table the analysis because Mycroft would require both his and Lestrade’s presence under a single roof, but after his brother was stronger… yes, something to consider at another time.

__________

Sherlock had, fortunately, dropped several books, along with his research notebook into his pocket before he came to take his turn monitoring his sibling, so he was busily engaged in data evaluation when a small noise from Mycroft’s bed drew his attention and he watched his brother slowly move into consciousness.

      “Good.  You have not expired without my notice.  Lestrade will be pleased to hear the news.  I am certain he would blame me if you shuffled off this mortal coil while he was preparing himself for tomorrow’s work day.”

Mycroft’s head jerked towards the familiar voice and Sherlock felt an unpleasant knot form in his chest seeing the water rise up in his brother’s eyes.

      “Please, Sherlock… you should not be here.”

      “I agree.  My time is valuable and you are not good company in the best of circumstances, however, your health needs cannot be discounted, so… I am here.”

The younger Holmes maintained his best disdainful voice and expression as he confronted his brother, but it was a mask and one, as he expected, his brother penetrated with ease.

      “Sherlock… you should not suffer this.”

      “It is not I who am suffering, brother.”

No, that was not true and he should at least offer Mycroft some degree of honesty.

      “At least, not in the same manner as are you, which is far more acute and significant.  It affects me that you endured… such a great deal.  I am not unaware of your pain and it is not a pleasant thing for me to witness.  I am fully culpable for your current circumstances and that is not something I take lightly or will be able ever to forget.  I do not entirely understand what I feel knowing you would go to these lengths for me not once, but multiple times, but I can say I am not comfortable with the knowledge and dwelling upon it is extremely difficult.  However, this is immaterial at the moment.  All that is relevant is your health and welfare and that is to what we shall confine our discussions.  Now, how are you?  Do you require anything?”

Sherlock bore his brother’s fevered and watery stare for a long time until Mycroft broke their gaze by shaking his head.

      “I am comfortable.”

      “Good.  The medications you are receiving are helping with the pain, however, if you need anything else, you mustn’t hesitate to inform the staff or myself.  For example, would you like some water?”

The fact that his brother’s lips were pale and stiff-looking made Mycroft’s response unnecessary, but Sherlock waited for the nod to pour a small cup of water and assist his brother taking a drink.

      “Gregory?”

      “I relieved his vigil an hour ago; although he was highly resistant to leaving.  Given his druthers, he would have stayed the night, but I convinced him that his superiors would not be pleased if he fell asleep while conducting his duties.  He bowed to my superior logic.”

Sherlock couldn’t interpret Mycroft’s frown, but decided it was not worth delving too deeply into the reasons at this point in time.  They were likely complicated and convoluted and he was not at all prepared to offer any constructive discourse on the subject.

      “You should both… I do not…”

      “If you are going to attempt to convince me to leave, you shall find yourself with a large quantity of wasted breath to dispose of.”

      “Sherlock… you should not… there are things you should not…”

      “Know?  See?  Hear discussed?  You have no secrets, Mycroft.  I am well aware of every bruise, welt and cut on your body.  I know the damage to your leg, your ribs and other internal structures.  I am well aware that you were brutally sodomized, repeatedly, and… I did not tell Lestrade of the _objects_ I found that bore traces of your blood.  There is nothing about this for which I lack awareness and I know, I cannot erase from my mind, that this was my doing.  It was for me you did this and, despite your nonsensical notion that it is your duty to suffer for my benefit, this is _my_ fault.  So please, do not dishonor me by saying my perceptions are flawed or not allowing me my share of the blame.”

His brother should not cry.  Mycroft’s face should not be twisted with shame and self-loathing.  Though they were not the most collegial siblings, this was not anything Sherlock would have ever, in his darkest, angriest dreams, ever wished upon his brother.  Mycroft cried because he thought he had failed, but he could not be more wrong.  Sherlock knew who had failed and it was certainly not his brother, though he let Mycroft weep for some time because… it was said to be cathartic and the release had to have some therapeutic value.  It was in no way that witnessing his brother’s agony was his own method of self-punishment.

      “Now, John will, I assume, visit you at some point and you will be perfectly honest with him about your condition.  Now is not the time to try and conceal the extent of your pains and discomforts.”

      “J…John?”

      “Doctor Watson.  He is cooperating with us in avoiding police intervention in this matter and has taken a personal interest in your welfare.  He is capable, if somewhat inexperienced, and I see no reason to request you be tended to by another of the bone rattlers and bloodletters.”

Sherlock handed Mycroft a tissue and waved his fingers at his brother’s face, which earned the first fraction of a smile he had seen on Mycroft’s lips since he had disappeared.

      “I feel privileged.”

      “You should.  I took the initiative to interview him personally and that is a further measure of my time donated to your cause.”

      “Th…thank you.  And no police… that is critical.”

      “As I stated, we are working to forestall that action.  As of yet, they have not been notified and I doubt that will change.  I will ask you formally, however, if you wish to bring charges against the individual who did this to you.”

      “No.”

And it was a ‘no’ that Sherlock recognized as iron-clad and immutable.  As they suspected, Mycroft would not be pursuing any legal action for his brutalization.  He would discuss with Lestrade the nature of the non-legal actions they would take against this individual, however, and he could only hope that the PC did not harbor any foolish notions about keeping him from obtaining his full measure of satisfaction.

      “I thought not, as did Lestrade, but we will support you fully if you change your mind.  You could not… you cannot have predicted _this_ would be the outcome of your bargain…”

Mycroft’s failure to meet his eye increased the size and weight of the cold lump in Sherlock’s chest.

      “You nearly did not survive, Mycroft.  If we had not taken you away, it is highly doubtful that you would have survived another day, let alone to collect your wages.”

      “They were to be delivered to you.”

Breathing with the pressure in his chest was becoming impossible, but Sherlock was not at all sure breathing was precisely what he wanted to do right now.

      “I will choose to believe that you are having difficulties properly expressing yourself now, Mycroft, and that you are not implying your continued well-being, let alone survival, was not important to you.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “I shall choose not to believe that because my brother would know that I would suffer because of that choice and the suffering would be unendurable.  He would know that his loss would impact me disastrously and I would carry the guilt of that loss for the duration of my life.  My brother would never make a choice that would affect my life in such an annihilating fashion.  This is how I know you are currently befuddled and I consider the matter closed until such time as said brother might be less confused and can more coherently discuss the issue with me.”

And Lestrade and whatever professional assistance they would secure for Mycroft’s mental health care.  Truly, Sherlock did not believe the man lying in the bed planned for such a devastating beating, but he feared greatly that once it began, Mycroft saw no compelling reason to bring things to a halt.

A tiny nod was all the answer Sherlock received, but it was enough for now.  Neither of them was foolish enough to believe that there would not be many discussions in the days and weeks to come, most as painful as this one and some, perhaps, even more cutting.

      “Good.  Now, are you in need of more rest?”

A small shake of the head, which Sherlock returned with a nod and the younger Holmes was out of his chair, gathering the supplies Lestrade had collected, holding them out for Mycroft to inspect.

      “Lestrade was nearly expelled from this facility for his rampant thievery of supplies for you to use for your entertainment.  He would likely appreciate something for his efforts.”

Mycroft looked between Sherlock and the proffered materials and slowly took two pencils and the sheets of white paper that Lestrade had attached to a clipboard.  As soon as he had the items in his unmarked hands, Sherlock observed a noticeable and welcome change in his brother.  Some of the darkness was pushed aside and the demons in his mind were caged for the moment as he began to make increasingly confident pencil strokes on the paper.  For his part, the younger Holmes returned to his chair and took up his own work, keeping one eye on it and one eye on Mycroft.  It would be a quiet night, he had little doubt.  When the painkillers began to wear off, when the doctors began to discuss his condition with their patient, when the subject of a change of address was broached… things would not be so quiet.  But, for now, quiet was a blessing.  Mycroft worked best when it was quiet and Sherlock wondered if he would ever again be able to bring himself to complain about Mycroft’s need to draw.  It brought him such peace… 

__________

Lestrade looked around his flat, mentally filling it with three people, and found the image a happy one.  It would be a little crowded, but a lot of the time he was there Sherlock wouldn’t be and vice versa, so that would keep things from being too claustrophobic.  And he knew the kitchen table fit three easily enough.  There was plenty of hot water and… he’d need to get some more towels and blankets… but they could make do nicely.  Already his mind had been reviewing his finances, planning a budget, finalizing his list of people to talk to about side work and… they _could_ make it.  It wouldn’t be a ‘will they or won’t they,’ it would be a ‘how _well_ will they’ and that was better than a lot of people could claim.

There were a few bottles of beer left in the kitchen and Lestrade cracked one before rummaging through the cupboards and refrigerator and deciding that food was far less important than relaxation right now.  The beer was his companion for a second shower of the day, more to wash away the stress than to wash away the dirt, then it accompanied him for a jump between the sheets, which he noticed Sherlock had replaced with his last clean set.  He had a book on the nightstand and it was a good one  - lots of action, with clear-cut heroes and villains – and this was going to be the plan for his next couple of hours before he went to sleep.  It would take at least that long to unwind, to push down the images of his lover in his hospital bed… and before he reached that bed.  It would take that long to regain his bearings sufficiently that his mind would be able to rest.  It would take that long for his body to be convinced that it didn’t have to be on alert and accept the sleep it was being offered.  Tomorrow wasn’t going to be easy, either, since he’d be a mass of worry as to what was happening out of his view, but he would get through it.  He’d get in early to have a chat with his superiors about arranging his schedule into something that would work for his new situation, and hope that he could make a convincing enough argument that they’d agree.  Then he’d focus every bit of attention he could spare on doing his job for the citizens of London.  Finally, he would take over for Sherlock at Mycroft’s bedside.  By that time, his lover might actually want to talk to him.  And if he didn’t, that was ok.  He wasn’t one to mind the quiet…


	18. Chapter 18

      “How’s he doing?”

Sherlock looked up to see John standing next to him, a coffee in his hand that he passed over to Sherlock with a smile.

      “He has been sleeping for some time.”

      “Good.  That’s good.  Sleeping, right now, is good.  That’s pure healing time and the more the better.  I can’t say we won’t have to do a little work on him, depending on how things go, but sleep and heal is the best plan of attack right now.  Did you... has anyone had a chance to talk to him today?”

Sherlock sipped the coffee and was a little surprised that the doctor remembered how he preferred it.

      “Mycroft and I had a conversation earlier.  It was not pleasant.”

      “I bet it wasn’t.  I doubt many of the conversations are going to be pleasant right now, but each one is going to be helpful.  Get the issues out into the open so he can start work through them.   But slowly, ok.  Be patient and don’t try to push him too quickly.  It’s difficult enough to handle the physical problems now, so don’t overload him with the emotional ones.  That won’t be easy, because you’re going to want to dig in fast, especially since there are matters that relate to you.  But... try and go slower than you might want to.”

      “Mycroft is not as fragile as you might believe.  Though this particular incident is atypically severe, it is _not_ entirely atypical of what he has suffered previously.  He shall accept his physical damage philosophically.”

      “And the emotional?”

      “I concede that will be the most problematic area.  However, he has endured a great deal of emotional distress in his life and that should predispose him to manage this situation with better success than, perhaps, the average person, which Mycroft certainly is not.”

John frowned slightly and Sherlock was at a loss as to what part of his statement was giving the doctor pause.

      “Maybe that’s true, but let me ask you this.  How qualified do you feel to measure your brother’s emotional wellness?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to frown.  He was highly qualified, of course.  He lived with his brother, didn’t he?  Not that they discussed such matters.  Actually... most of their discussions centered on _him_.  They rarely talked about Mycroft, beyond specific actions taken in a day or... when he was specifically berating his brother for choices he made.  There was little conversation on his brother’s motives or what he experienced at the mental or emotional level; in fact, it was not something to which he gave any thought.  And he had not at all predicted this particular turns of events.

      “I do not know if I can answer either way with confidence.”

      “I’m going to vote no and that’s not an indictment or anything.  First, that doesn’t strike me as a particular area of strength for you, and it’s not for everyone, but I also get the feeling that your brother has learned to hide things from you well enough that it doesn’t ping on your radar.  I’ll tell you that he is in a very black place emotionally and is going to try and hide the worst from you as best he can.  I’m sure he’s terrified of making you feel guilty or burdening you with things he feels you shouldn’t have to bear.  This is going to take time to process, on everyone’s part, and we’re going to have a battle on our hands to get him to lose a certain mindset and get to a healthier place.  I’m not the one to give him a proper psychiatric evaluation, but I bet when he gets one it’s going to be filled with all sorts of terms about guilt, martyr complex, self-harm... things he lives with every day, to a greater or lesser degree, based on what’s going on at the time.  There could even be worse things going on in his head, too, especially now.  You and Greg are going to have your work cut out for you.”

      “As will you.”

      “Pardon.”

      “I assume you shall be spearheading his recovery and rehabilitation.”

      “Uh... sort of.  I mean, I’ll keep an eye on his physical well-being while he’s here, but after that...”

      “You are not planning to provide continued care when Mycroft is discharged?”

      “Not the way the system works, Sherlock.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because it doesn’t.  He can go to someone else after he’s discharged to monitor how he’s doing.  As far as his mental health goes, there are people to handle that, too.”

      “He would prefer you.”

      “He doesn’t actually know me.”

      “I do.  Lestrade does and he agrees with me.”

      “Oh, had that discussion already?”

      “No, but his mind is extremely simple and narrowly-focused so predicting his response is an easy matter.”

      “Lovely.  You’re insulting him in one breath, then using him as a supporter for your cause in the next.  Very efficient of you.”

      “A scientist must be efficient if they are to be effective.”

      “But efficiency doesn’t erase the fact you’re loony.”

      “I am not loony.  I am thinking about the necessary elements for Mycroft’s care and getting them aligned prior to his discharge.  Lestrade and I have already discussed our residential situation and coordinated our schedules to provide Mycroft with continuous minding.  But he will need to have his physical and mental health checked and that will be your job.”

      “And now we’re back to the loony issue, again.  Sherlock, I’m not a private physician and I have a job already that works me near to death.”

      “Is it illegal for you to provide care to him?”

      “Well, there could be ways to make it happen, but that’s not going to be the path we follow so...”

      “Nonsense.  It is your job to provide the highest quality of care to your patients and that means continuing your treatment once he has been released.”

      “And is that what I’m supposed to be doing for every one of my patients?”

      “Of course not.  Only Mycroft.”

      “And how is that _not_ loony?”

      “It is not my job to ameliorate your ignorance.”

      “Oh my god.  If this is what Greg and Mycroft have to deal with every day... they drink a lot don’t they?"

      “Both enjoy alcohol in moderation; however, I don’t see how that is relevant.”

John shook his head and had no idea if he should laugh or cry.  Sherlock, apparently, had no clue how the health care system worked and that was actually a little worrying because it might also mean neither he nor Mycroft had often sought medical treatment, for acute issues or for overall good health.  Actually, that _had_ to be the case, because no doctor worth their salt would have failed to take some actions towards getting Mycroft’s weight up and addressing the vitamin deficiencies and other problems his blood work had documented.

But what Sherlock was proposing was certainly not the way the system worked.  He had a job here and not at their local clinic.  He _could_ ask who worked in the area Sherlock and Mycroft lived and try to find out about them to report back to his friend, if _friend_ was actually the proper term to use for the loony student.  But it was not appropriate to try and upend the system for a single patient.  The system had rules and regulations for a reason, and it was not his place to play with that or do someone else’s job.  And what about...

      “The situation is quite simple, so I do not understand the amount of time you are devoting to deciphering the concept.  I realize that your intellect is relatively on par with Lestrade, however this is unduly excessive.  Do you require my coffee to stimulate your synapses?”

      “Bastard.  And no, I don’t need your second-hand coffee.  Sherlock... I work here.  This is my job.  Period.  _I_ deal with the patients here, not their normal doctor from their clinic.  And when my patients are released, others handle their care, whether it’s a general practice fellow or a certain specialist.”

      “And none of that says you _cannot_ tend to Mycroft’s needs, so I consider the matter closed.  We shall discuss a work schedule once we are closer to my brother’s release.  Lestrade had mentioned the idea of additional monetary compensation for your time, however, I would have to confirm that plan with him since he is the one who would be providing the funds.”

John stared open-mouthed at the dark-haired man and decided that life must be very nice in Sherlock’s personal little world.  You got what you wanted and things moved in a very orderly and helpful fashion.  How much of that was natural personality or a by-product of a brother who seemed dedicated to making that little world a reality, John wasn’t sure, but it still seemed a pleasant place to live.

      “Ok, let me try this again.  I...”

      “It will do you little good, Doctor Watson.  Sherlock’s train of thought requires several cases of dynamite to derail.”

John and Sherlock whirled to look at Mycroft, who wasn’t quite smiling, but at least looked more peaceful than agitated.

      “Mr. Holmes, it’s good to see you awake.  How are you feeling?”

      “I would have to say acceptably well.  I am certain some of that is due to medication, however, I cannot claim anything is unduly stressful at this point.”

      “And how much of that is a lie?”

      “See, Sherlock... he is not as limited as you are proposing.”

      “I would assume that John has experienced dissembling patients before and I have made him very aware that you rival the devil as the Prince of Lies.”

      “Oh good, I do appreciate having my attributes properly recognized.”

      “Are you two finished?”

John did take Sherlock’s coffee this time and dragged a chair over to have a seat next to Mycroft’s bed.

      “Right now, my only concern is Mr. Holmes’s health and bringing it up to a point that he can actually _be_ released from hospital.  And that’s going to be a collaborative effort, so lying to me is not helpful.  Tonight, we’re going to be running a few tests and I’m going to check over one or two things to see how they’re coming along.  That’s _all_ I’m thinking about right now.  So, Sherlock, you want to step away for a moment, so I can have some time my patient?”

      “Why?  I am not ignorant of the situation and I shall have to provide some measure of care, I suppose, when he returns home to Lestrade’s flat.”

John watched Mycroft’s eyes widen slightly and surmised that the discussion about living arrangements had yet to involve Mycroft Holmes himself.  And from the slightly contrite look on Sherlock’s face, he had to guess that Sherlock realized his gaffe, too.

      “And on that note, perhaps you should go and get yourself more coffee and give your own brain a little jump.  This isn’t going to take long, but some things should just be private between a doctor and his patient.”

Sherlock snorted royally, but accepted the dismissal and Mycroft waited until he was out of earshot before chuckling lightly and taking a longer look at the man peering at his medical chart.

      “He listens to you.”

      “What?  Oh... well, I think anyone listens when the man in the white coat gives them the boot.”

      “Really, Doctor Watson.  Does Sherlock strike you as person who listens to anyone based on their job, title or position in society?”

      “Ok, maybe not.  But... I guess we’ve built up a rapport, so he trusts my opinion a little.”

      “Sherlock does not build rapport, as a rule.  He avoids human connections as surely as he avoids cleaning our flat.  Which reminds me...”

      “Nope.  Not right now.  I know what you’re going to say and now is not the time.  If you’d like, when you have that discussion with your brother and Greg, I’ll happily sit in and be part of it so there’s a neutral third-party to referee.”

      “Ah... so I am correct that there _are_ matters to which I am not currently privy and they are matters of significance.”

      “What part of ‘not right now’ escaped you?  My god, you and Sherlock both... now I’m thinking it’s just me and Greg who are the normal blokes around here.”

      “Oh, so you _are_ allying yourself with our little party and Sherlock specifically, if I read your tone correctly.”

      “I didn’t use a tone.”

      “You were well-provided with tone.”

      “I assure you I was not.”

      “Now who is lying, Doctor Watson?”

      “I’m changing your records to reflect your family name as Loony, because you and your brother are truly in with that lot.”

      “You are most defensive on these matters, doctor.  It will be very interesting to act as observer as you continue to interact with Sherlock.”

      “Loony.  Positively loony.  Now, quiet down and let me get this done or your brother is going to come back and get to watch your examination.  Won’t _that_ be fun?”

      “Sherlock would likely find it highly fascinating, however, your point it taken.”

      “Good.  And Mr. Holmes... no matter what, I am here for _you_ , not your brother or Greg.  I’m in your corner and will always work for what is best for you, even if it means a fight with the others.  Or you.”

Mycroft nodded and let himself relax as much as possible as John began a physical examination.  It was terribly unpleasant and thoroughly humiliating, but it was not something on which he would comment.  It was his due, after all.  All of the unpleasantness, the humiliation, the pain, the disgrace... it was well-deserved and he embraced it, as such.  Instead, he would use the time to think about this Doctor Watson.  He had wakened slightly before he made his presence known to Sherlock and his new acquaintance and had keenly listened to their exchange.  It was intriguing, to say the least.  Sherlock’s temper stayed in check, even in the face of opposition to his ideas, and there was a touch of play and lightness to their conversation that was surprising, yet delightful to behold.  And Sherlock had teamed well with Gregory, also.  To picture them working together, even for a task that should never have been handed to them, was actually an enjoyable activity.  It was an image he never thought would be in his mind, Sherlock cooperatively acting with another person, but what a splendid turn of events.  And Doctor Watson… if there was a spot of brightness in this entire debacle it was that Sherlock was demonstrating very encouraging growth.  It truly did make matters easier to bear…

      “Ok, not bad.  There’s still some bleeding that’s concerning me, but overall you’re making progress.  I know your ribs can’t be making motion pleasant right now, but I feel confident they’ll heal up beautifully.  An orthopedic specialist is going to stop by in the morning to take another look at your knee and talk to you about that, but from what I can tell, it should be fine in the long term.  Might give you some trouble when it’s damp, just like the old geezers complain about, but nothing worse and maybe not even that.  You may avoid geezerhood altogether.”

      “Thank heavens for small favors, I believe is the expression?”

      “And a good one, too.  No use being a geezer when you’ve got someone strong and handsome lusting after you.  Which Greg completely does, by the way.  I had to warn the nurses to keep an eye on him so he didn’t do anything to embarrass the ward.  Must be nice to be in love.”

John closely watched Mycroft’s reaction to the bait he’d tossed out and got about what he expected.  A nearly invisible flash of joy that quickly drowned in the rising tide of very dark things that would have to addressed quickly before it was more than just that flash that got dragged down beneath the surface.

      “Gregory is an exemplary individual.”

      “Oh, no question there.  In this work you meet lots of family members of your patients and you pick up quickly on the good, the bad and the best.  He’s up there with the best of them.  You are a very lucky man, Mr. Holmes.”

Another piece of bait and nearly the same response, except this flash of happiness was laced with a comfortable glow that lingered just a fraction of a second longer than the initial spark.  They both, again, sank quickly, but at least they were there to begin with.  His patient hadn’t lost all hope yet, it seemed, and as long as there was hope, as long as his patient still treasured the idea of his relationship, he wasn’t ready to sink completely.  That was going to be crucial for his therapy.  As was… that.

      “Oh, it looks like good old Greg found you something to draw with.  Do you mind?”

John motioned towards the sheets of paper which he could see had something drawn on them, though they were turned over.  It took a long time for Mycroft to nod permission, but John waited calmly as his patient wrestled with the idea of someone seeing what he’d worked on.  With the nod given, he picked up the pages and sucked in his breath seeing the first one.

      “This is… amazing.”

And it was.  It was a portrait of Sherlock that could easily hang in a museum.  Technically, it was flawless, even though it looked like the only tool Mycroft had used was a standard pencil.  But what elevated it to the stars was the emotion behind the piece.  Every bit of Mycroft’s love for his brother leapt right off the paper and into the doctor’s eyes and it literally took his breath away.  But, when he pushed aside the initial shock and turned his medical eye at the drawing, he saw other things.  Sherlock’s expression lacked the sheen of arrogance, of scorn, that it seemed to normally wear.  There was a childlike look to the eyes that gave the piece a more gentle feel than Sherlock’s normal appearance.  It was a startlingly-accurate image, but with pieces a doting brother would change to make the picture on paper match the picture he carried in his mind.  Not a perfect portrait of the subject, in reality, but… you wanted to protect the person wearing this face.  You wanted to keep them safe from the world, give them every chance to do whatever they wanted to do… it summed up exactly what Mycroft felt about Sherlock and sat at the core of his issues.  He’d failed this ideal image of his brother and it was crippling him.

The second made John smile widely and not only because the man in the drawing was smiling, either.  It was a glorious picture of Greg.  Every bit of the man’s life and vigor was captured perfectly.  You could practically feel the heat coming off his body and the sound of his laugh.   And no picture John had ever seen presented a more perfect mix of kindness and, for lack of a better word, roguishness… all purely Greg.  But, again, there were the signs… everything was perfect, but a tad _too_ perfect.  Any little flaw had been smoothed over, the proportions just slightly altered so the individual was not only beautiful, but incomparably beautiful.  A perfect man.  Perfect in a way a person could not be except in the mind of someone who loved them with their whole heart.

      “These are… really, these are just extraordinary.  I’ll find something to put them in so they don’t get crumpled or have coffee dripped on them or anything.”

       “There is no need.”

There was a flatness to Mycroft’s voice that saddened John, but… they were only at the starting line.  There was a long way to go yet.

       “Pardon me, but there’s a great need.  I’m not going to let these beauties get smudged.  And, by beauties, I’m talking about the drawings themselves and not the prats _in_ the drawings, you understand.  They really look like pet food that’s been left out in the sun too long, but you actually managed to make them marginally presentable.”

John kept a surreptitious eye on Mycroft as he spoke and was happy to see that the artist seemed pleased with his critique.  And his feeble joke at least drew out a little smile.

      “But… I notice there’s not one of you here.  Run out of time?”

And away went the little smile in the blink of an eye.

      “I am well aware of my appearance.  I do not require a reminder.”

      “You know what these two ugly men look like, too, but you put a lot of effort into something that’s absolutely wonderful.  Would you do that for me?  Would you draw me a picture of yourself?”

      “I am fatigued.  I believe I shall have a small nap.”

      “That wasn’t even a good try.  That was like a slap in the face it was such a bad try.  I _would_ really like you to do that for me, if you would.  Give me all three of you in one package.  I don’t need it right now, but, I’ll check back with you before my shift is over and I’d like to see something started at least.  And before you ask, it’s something I’d like to see _just_ because these are so brilliant.”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and John was certain he knew that it was partially a lie, but the doctor could only hope that he didn’t know exactly how much of a lie it was.  Or that the drawings would be passed along to someone better trained to look at them for insights into his patient.  Mycroft’s self-portrait absolutely needed to be part of that information.

      “Just give it as good a go as you did these two.  Nice and realistic.  Who knows… you might end up framing them for your wall or something.  I would, at least.”

      “You would what?”

John was relieved that he’d gotten everything he wanted done, and more, while Sherlock was gone because he noticed easily the changes in Mycroft’s face and posture when his brother arrived near his bed.  These changes hid away the small peeks of the real Mycroft and put in their place something very much like a mask.  A plain and placid mask designed to keep his brother from getting a toehold on what was going on behind it.  Maybe he could send Sherlock on an extended errand at some point so he could get more time talking to his patient alone.

      “Shag Greg senseless.  We’re planning Mycroft’s release day party.”

Ok…maybe the mask wasn’t as bolted on as he’d feared because that amused snort did sound fairly genuine.

      “Kindly keep your disgusting sexual fantasies to yourself.”

      “Oh, ok.  Not into blokes, I guess.”

      “That is neither here nor there.  The image of Lestrade engaged in any form of carnal behavior is enough to force my brain into a permanent shutdown and I refuse to live my life in a vegetative state in this lackluster healthcare facility.”

So not a ‘no’… John had no idea, or at least he hoped he had no idea, why that made him happy.

      “We move those patients elsewhere, so go ahead and have a little turn-off if you need to.  Mr. Holmes, I’m going to draw some blood now and someone will be by shortly with something for you to eat.  Do your best with it, ok?  I know hospital food’s not the best, but it’ll be nutritious and start getting you back in shape.”

Mycroft simply nodded and waited while John drew two vials of blood, which the nurse could have done, but, and this was another thing he didn’t want to think about, John felt like he had a responsibility to do it himself.  When it was over and Mycroft had his standard gauze and tape patch over the puncture wound, John smiled at both the brothers and walked away to drop off the vials and continue on with his other patients.

      “You should not badger the good doctor into compromising his position, Sherlock.”

      “I trust that John can withstand a good deal of badgering, so if he chooses to make the right decision in this case, it is purely of his own design.”

Was that a compliment?  Compliments from Sherlock were as rare as flawless diamonds.  Oh yes, observing their interactions was going to be highly entertaining.  And informative.

      “Be that as it may… I am certain the local practitioners shall be adequate for whatever I require, which I suspect, in any case, shall be little.”

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee to hide his pause for thought.  Was Mycroft attempting to, again, shield him from the truth, or did he actually believe that medical assistance would not be necessary?  The third possibility, that he did not _want_ medical assistance and would not seek it, was not an option he wished seriously to consider.

      “Then you are deluded, but I expect little else from someone with no interest in the scientific or medical areas.  I found tea for you.  Drink it.”

Mycroft watched as Sherlock drew a small, lidded cup out of his coat pocket and tried not to think about how his brother walked with it through the halls without having his pocket soaked in hot liquid.  Or warm liquid, as was most likely the case.

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  Tea sounds rather appealing at the moment.  If you could… let me see…”

Mycroft tried to reposition himself in the bed and found every attempt brought only pain, often from very unmentionable places.  Seeing his brother struggle, Sherlock studied the situation and found the mechanism to raise the bed very slightly so Mycroft could more easily drink.

      “Again, thank you.  This is… you should not have to do this, Sherlock.  There are paid staff who…”

      “Shut up and drink your tea.”

Well, that left no room for misinterpretation and Mycroft hid his small surge of pride in his brother.  Growth… he was growing.  And it was a wonderful thing to watch…

__________

Waking up alone was bollocks.  This was just not any fun at all and he’d done it for most of his life.  Right now, there should be a sexy man in bed with him who was swearing at him for making too much noise getting up, then stalking sleepy-eyed into the kitchen to see what was up for breakfast.  Ok… that was a little too… what was the word for chauvinistic when you dated a man?... well, _too_ , but maybe now and then his sleepy-eyed Mycroft could make him a nice breakfast before he was off for the job.  And, of course, he’d do the same if his artist was beating him out of the house when he had a free day and Mycroft was going out to earn his own share of the household funds.  He just didn’t cook as well as Mycroft did.  Or look as good doing it.  Or have that little swaying dance move while he puttered around the kitchen.  Or hum with that sultry voice.  Mycroft was a breakfast god and that was all there was to it, so why should he even try to compete?

And today he had to try and get his schedule sorted so the breakfast god could be taken care of for a bit until he was back on his feet.  That… could be tricky.  Not impossible, because, worse come to worse, he could do some shift swapping with a few of his mates and just work with some of his lower-level superiors, but that wasn’t the best way.  It wasn’t the honest and up-front way, so that wasn’t how he was going to do it.  Do it right or not at all; that had been his philosophy all his life and there was no reason to try changing it now.

That didn’t mean that knocking on the heavy door with the name and rank on it was an easy thing to do.  He was a fairly new, lowly PC and was going to ask for a fairly large thing and he was fairly petrified when the ‘Come in’ rang out in the air.

      “Ummm… sir?  Hello, I’m PC Greg Lestrade.  I was hoping I could have a moment of your time.  Not if you’re busy, of course, but if you’ve got a minute…”

      “What is it PC?  You have your minute, but try not to drag it out to ten, if you can help it.”

      “Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.  It’s like this, sir… I would like to request, respectfully, for… it’s like this, I need, and it’s only temporary, mind you… but for a little while…”

      “PC Lestrade, your minute is quickly withering away and dying.”

      “Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir.”

This was like talking to the vicar when he’d caught you with stolen sweets in your pocket.  Not that he had any experience with that, of course.  But someone really needed to tell vicars that they couldn’t frog march you back to the shop and make you give back your sweets and spend the rest of the day sweeping and dusting as penance.

      “It’s like this… I need to have my duty schedule be only days for awhile, maybe just a couple of weeks, but it could be a couple more, too, depending.  It’s… well, it’s for… someone who’s very sick and needs looking after.  His brother needs to do days, so that means I’ll need to do the nights and, as I said, it shouldn’t be for terribly long, but…”

Lestrade watched as the older man behind the large desk raised his hand to signal for silence and then held his breath as papers were set down and a chair was pushed back a little to give a relatively tall body the room to stretch its legs.

      “Can you try that again in slightly abbreviated form?”

      “Yes sir.  Someone I… well, someone who… really, it’s someone that I…”

      “Does this someone have a name, PC?”

      “Yes sir.  It’s Mycroft.  Mycroft Holmes.”

      “Hold on a moment.  Isn’t that the artist that keeps sending our boys running with their tails between their legs?”

      “That would be him, sir.  And it’s only because they try and run him off his patch, which is actually an interesting story as to why they really can’t because, you see…”

      “I’d rather not _see_ at this particular time, Lestrade.  So, one of our local characters has gotten himself a bit of the flu and you want me to rearrange the duty roster for the next month so you can babysit?”

      “Not exactly.  It’s not a touch of flu… he’s in hospital right now and when he’s released, he’s going to need care because… because he won’t be able to do a lot for himself for a bit.  Like I said, his brother… he’s a student and got permission to get his exams done early so he could sit days with Mycroft, but he has research to do at night and someone needs to be there for that and…”

      “And why is that someone you?  While I admire community spirit among the ranks, there is limit to what we can and should offer.”

      “I understand that sir, it’s just… it’s not community spirit.  I mean, not that I don’t have community spirit… I’m right up there on the list for the charity football game and to do my turn with that youth group we go and talk to… it’s just… well, it’s… he’s not just community… he’s… he’s important to me and I need to be there for him.”

Lestrade knew maintaining eye contact was important for looking confident and negotiating for something but whoever made that rule that didn’t have to do it while trying to bargain time off to take care of their lover.  Their same-sex lover…

      “Define ‘important.’ “

Nothing was going to go right with this, was it?  Well, he wasn’t going to hide anything, because he was proud of his artist and what they had.  Not a person in a thousand was so lucky.

      “He’s my lover.  More really… he’s the man I love.”

Well, there you have it.  The first time he used the word ‘love’ in a sentence and it was to the highest ranking person in their station.  Sorry, Mycroft.  Anyone who called him romantic was an idiot.  And any minute, the ceiling would probably crash down on his head as fallout.

      “I see.  Are you requesting any leave?”

Now that was something he hadn’t thought about.  However… no.  It was asking a lot for schedule consideration, as it was… he wasn’t going to really put the nail in his coffin by reaching for the moon.

      “No, sir.  Right now, Sherlock… that’s Mycroft’s brother… and I are juggling things and it’s working alright.  He’s with Mycroft now and I’ll take over when I’m off duty.  He’ll replace me early tomorrow morning.”

Waiting for the ceiling to crash down.

      “Is that going to leave you time to get any sleep?  I can’t have someone under my command who’s not fit and ready for duty.”

      “That won’t be a problem, sir.  I can promise you that.”

Still waiting.

      “You’d better, PC.  If I receive one report that you’re napping on the job or failing in any way to carry out your responsibilities to the fullest, I will not hesitate to negate any compassionate actions I put in place on your behalf.”

What?  That sounded like…

      “I… I’m going to get my schedule?”

      “I don’t see a reason to deny your request.  It won’t be difficult to arrange, however, you should expect to see a lot of night duty once your Mycroft is feeling better and I’d advise that you volunteer for holiday duty come the Christmas season to refill your stock of goodwill with the rest of the chaps.  But, Lestrade…”

Finally, the plaster chips were landing in his hair.

      ‘’…it’s not anybody’s business why you need a modified schedule and you are not obliged to say anything.  I’m certainly not going to spread your business though the station and I wouldn’t for anyone with a personal situation to manage, but… you know how word gets around.  Not everyone is going to be happy to hear… well, I don’t have to spell it out for you.”

      “No sir, you don’t.  I have faith in my mates, though.  There’ll be some who’ll want a piece of my arse… ok maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say…  but there’ll be plenty who’ll have my back, too.  And I’m not going to make it an issue.  I just want to live my life and do my job.  And I’m good at my job, sir.  They might not approve of who I love, but no one can say I’m not a good officer or don’t do my share.”

The older man studied the younger one closely and let out a slow breath.  At least the lad wasn’t clueless about things.

      “Alright, then.  If you have any trouble, though, I want to know about it.  I’ll not allow anyone in this building to be treated any differently than anyone else and certainly not be harassed in any way.  I’ll notify them to sort out your hours and you can expect that to go into effect as of today.  Now, is there anything else?”

Lestrade blinked, then blinked again, then fiddled with the sleeve of his uniform.

      “No, sir.  Thank you, sir.  Really… thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.  And you’re dismissed.”

Lestrade spun on his heel and tried not to run to the door, skidding to a stop when he heard a small, ‘wait one moment’ cough behind him.

      “That artist… he’s very good.  I’ve seen his work.  You’re a lucky man.”

Lestrade let a smile break out on his face and suddenly felt a lot lighter than when he walked in.

      “Yes sir.  I am.”

      “And don’t forget it.”

      “No sir, not chance of that.”


	19. Chapter 19

As expected, once the revisions to the duty schedule were announced, Lestrade was besieged with questions which, he decided, after surprisingly little thought, to answer honestly.  And the bruised eye he was now sporting was nothing compared to the busted nose someone else was nursing as a result of one of the more disagreeable lads having issue with sharing a station with ‘a poofter’.  However, it was worth it to see how many stepped up to stop the fight and give his opponent a piece of their minds.  Even a few he had thought would have a problem with the news took his side, at least as far as supporting that he was a good officer and that was all that mattered in these four walls.  Personally, they may have had problems with his lifestyle, but were practical enough to know it didn’t impact his ability to do his job.  And there was plenty of evidence to back that up – his record was solid and, at minimum, they acknowledged it and knew he wasn’t a discredit to the uniform.

After that single flare-up, things calmed down quickly and by day’s end and Lestrade let out a very large sigh of relief that it finished on an uneventful note.  Ultimately, it hadn’t been a bad day.  Not a good day, necessarily, but not a bad one… certainly not as bad as it could have been.  There would be little things cropping up in the future, of that he had no doubt, but as long as he had allies, those little things probably wouldn’t grow into _big_ things and that was all that mattered.  Go to work, do his job… that was what was important.  And _keep_ doing that job to the best of his ability so that his record remained strong and he stayed in the running for promotion.  One day he’d make it to a Detective post and then things would _really_ get interesting…

A quick stop at his flat to change out of his uniform, have a shower, eat and give up on thinking of ways to hide his bruised eye from Mycroft preceded Lestrade’s return to the hospital, where he was happy to see Sherlock was still sitting, engrossed in a book.

      “How’s he doing?”

Sherlock looked up and cocked an eyebrow at the new arrival.

      “Why do you have a black eye?”

      “Just an altercation at the station.  It’s all sorted now, so don’t worry about it.”

      “I wasn’t worried, however, I was curious as to why you are sporting the mark of a fistfight.  Mycroft will inquire, also, so you should have a more robust explanation ready to provide when he wakes.”

      “Mycroft’s got more important things to worry about than me getting into a little scuffle.  Now, you going to answer my question or not?”

      “Very well.  Mycroft is in as good a condition as one might expect given his injuries; however, you must impress upon his doctor that continued care after Mycroft’s release is absolutely expected and you shall not accept his refusal.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “John will tend to Mycroft’s treatment after his release.  I have already made that clear to him, but I am convinced his intellect is not significantly more developed than yours so he shall need multiple instances of direction for the concept to fully implant in his mind.”

      “Well, isn’t that nice of you.  Sherlock, that’s not the way the system works.”

      “And there is my proof.  John said the same thing.”

      “That’s because it’s true.”

      “Nevertheless, you were willing to employ him to tend to Mycroft before I amended my academic schedule, therefore it is no different to do so now.”

      “No, I was willing to ask the lad to do a bit of after-hours work for a little extra cash, not serve as Mycroft’s private doctor.  Don’t worry, Sherlock.  I know some of the people that work at the local clinics and they’re good.  Really good.  Mycroft will be in very good hands and…”

      “John shall tend to Mycroft and that is the end of the matter.”

      “You know, just because you say it a lot doesn’t mean it’s true.”

      “Do you believe that Mycroft shall willingly discuss his health issues with one of the drones employed to wipe the drippy noses of the hypochondria-prone masses?”

      “Well, he’s going to have to.”

      “No.  Already he is stating he believes he shall not have a great need for medical intervention after his release and I am certain a portion of that belief is centered on his desire to hide his situation from as many individuals as possible.  John knows, therefore he cannot logically object to John providing the care he will undoubtedly require.”

Beautiful.  Just the mindset Lestrade was hoping Mycroft wasn’t going to sink into.  Why, he didn’t know, but part of him had crossed its fingers that Mycroft would show reason and be realistic about his condition once he was released.  How silly he had been to think otherwise… Of course, Mycroft Holmes would believe that he would simply cloister himself in his flat and matters would take their own course without any help or attention by anyone.  

      “Well, we’ll deal with that when the time comes.  And the doctors that work in the clinics aren’t monkeys, you know.”

      “John is better.”

Now that was an interesting statement.  Actually, now that he thought about it, everything about Sherlock’s reaction to John had been interesting.  This would require a little more investigation and… now there was a good topic of conversation with Mycroft.  A nice, safe, mutually-entertaining topic of conversation.

      “I’ll admit that my opinion of him isn’t what it was when I met him, but that’s not going to change the facts.  I tell you what, though… we’ll talk about it more once we know when Mycroft can come home.”

Home.  Another topic of conversation between him and his lover.  This one wasn’t going to be as nice and safe, though.

      “Did you amend your hours?”

      “I did.  And, actually, it went a lot more smoothly than I expected.  I’m on days only for right now, but once Mycroft’s better, I’ll probably pull nights for just as long.  But we’re good for now and that’s all that matters.”

      “Excellent.  Then I shall depart.  I have experiments I must check on.”

      “Ok, here’s the flat key, again.  I’ll make you your own as soon as I get a chance.  And… anytime you want to start moving things over, go ahead.”

      “Should that not wait until you have broached the topic with Mycroft?”

      “Probably, but I’m not giving him the option of saying no.  That’s horrible of me and it’s not something I _ever_ want to do again, but I cannot let him go back to your flat no matter how much he protests.  If it was… better… I’d move in instead, if that made him happier, but it’s not healthy for him there.  It’s starting to get cold and… do you have _any_ heat in that place?”

      “There is a portable heater that we use on the coldest days.”

      “Does it do much?”

      “The temperature of the flat stays above freezing.”

      “Like I said, no option of saying no.”

      “I am not disagreeing; I am simply… Mycroft will not…”

      “I know, Sherlock.  And good for you, understanding it’s not going to sit well with him.  I don’t like this, but I don’t see any other way.  So, if you want to move things over, go ahead and I’ll take some time before I come tomorrow to pull together some supplies.  The cupboards are getting a little low.”

      “If… if you have funds with you, I can do the shopping.”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade looked surprised at the offer, but the PC wasn’t one to walk away from a chance to let Sherlock help.  A quick peek in his wallet and Sherlock was being handed enough money to keep them in groceries for the rest of the week.  And he wouldn’t comment on the fact that Sherlock’s eyes widened seeing the ‘wealth’ he was being handed for food.

      “I really appreciate it.  Get us lots of the basics and a couple of treats never hurt.  And… hold on…”

Lestrade pulled out a few more notes and handed them to Sherlock.

      “I know you want to get started quickly with your work, so there’s a little extra to pick up something to eat so you don’t have to cook.”

Sherlock stared at the money and the PC thought for a moment he might hand it back.

      “And what will you do for a meal this evening?”

      “Don’t worry, I ate before I came and if I get hungry, I’ve still got enough to buy something to hold me over to breakfast.  Have a good evening, Sherlock. I’ll be fine.”

The younger man glared at Lestrade, but added the last money to his initial hoard and nodded slightly before casting his eyes at his brother, then leaving his bedside.  For his part, Lestrade pulled out the book he had dropped into his jacket pocket and settled in for a long evening.  What would be nice when they got Mycroft back home was be that he’d be keeping vigil in a much more relaxing environment.  And that would be good for Mycroft, too.  He just had to convince his artist of that fact.

__________

      “Sherlock!  Hey, wait!”

Sherlock turned towards the voice hailing him and wasn’t surprised it was the one person in the building besides Lestrade who actually knew him.

      “Yes?”

      “Oh… just wanted to say hello.”

      “I would have thought your shift ended shift quite awhile ago.”

      “We’re a bit short-staffed right now, even doctors get sick, and I had to take some extra hours.  I’ve basically got time to eat, change clothes, fight with my flatmate and get back here before I’m on duty again.  But, I’ve got a couple of days off coming to make up for it, so I can’t complain too loudly.  I take it Greg’s sitting with Mycroft?”

      “As per our agreement.  And he has situated himself with his superiors so our plan for scheduled time will go forward unimpeded.”

      “That’s good… really, that’s good.  Mr. Holmes is lucky to have you two on his side.”

      “Three.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “Confine your objections to Lestrade.  He is in charge of such things.”

John could only laugh at Sherlock’s wave of his hand as he dismissed the issue and decided to let the matter lie for the moment.

      “I’m sure he’s thrilled to have all that authority.  So, are you off to, what was it, your research?”

      “I have several ongoing experiments on which I must check tonight, but I must first replenish our food supply.”

      “Is that a fancy way of saying you need groceries?”

      “Fancy is not the term I would use, but you are correct.”

      “Ok, that just reminds me I need to do that sometime.  Bastard flatmate eats half of my food, no matter how many times I remind him that he didn’t pay for it.”

      “I will be purchasing dinner for myself this evening.  You should do similar.”

      “Yeah, I probably should.  It just adds up in cost, though and it’s not like I’m flush at the moment.  But now and then is ok.  In fact we…”

John pursed his lips and looked at the tall student who was staring back with an oddly expectant expression.

      “Since you’re already going to be getting something for yourself, we could do it together.  Eating, I mean.  If you don’t mind the company.”

Sherlock was not at all sure how to respond.  No one ever wanted to do anything with him.  And _he_ never wanted to do anything with anyone.  But… the offer did not sound entirely unpleasant…

      “I do not mind, as long as I may choose where we obtain our food.”

      “Oh, already doubting my taste?”

      “No, I simply want Chinese.”

      “Then you won’t be getting any argument from me.”

      “Not that it would matter.”

      “No, of course not.”

__________

Lestrade took a moment to find some decent coffee and was happy Mycroft hadn’t wakened when he got back.  He really wanted to be here when Mycroft woke up.  It was silly, but he didn’t want his lover opening his eyes and finding himself alone.  He wanted Mycroft to never doubt for a second that he and Sherlock were always there for him.  As he moved to take his chair, Lestrade noticed the folder on the small table next to the bed and decided it would be alright to take a look.

Then he wished he hadn’t.  His artist was brilliant.  Utterly and indescribably brilliant, which made the drawings all the harder to look at.  Sherlock, the perfect baby brother.  Him, the… Mycroft was just being silly if he thought _he_ looked that good.  Those drawings were fine, actually, flattery aside.  It was the other one.  The one Mycroft did of himself.  It might as well be something someone did for a horror film.  A skeletally-thin man with lifeless eyes and features that were technically correct, but all seemed slightly off, like guitar strings that were ever-so-slightly out of tune. No smile or even a hint of the intelligence and nobility that was so much a part of who Mycroft was.  The care and affection in the other portraits was completely absent here… Mycroft could not have screamed his self-hatred in any louder a voice.

The three drawings were replaced in the folder and Lestrade sat down to sip his coffee and let his sadness subside into something manageable.  His poor artist… it was ridiculous!  How could his brain even begin to believe anything other than he was a talented, devoted, loving man who was prepared to make any sacrifice to help his brother.  But, it wasn’t anything new and Lestrade just sipped and stared at the sleeping figure, desperately wracking his brain for ways to go about changing Mycroft’s self-image.  Getting him to see with new eyes.   Ultimately, he had no idea what to do, but he _would_ do something.  Talk until he was breathless, love him until their bodies were exhausted, promenade him around to show off the pride he felt in their relationship and the man who shared it… whatever it took, he would do.  And it looked like he’d be starting on that now…

      “Hello, love.”

Mycroft’s eyes filled with a darkness Lestrade hated to see, but expected, nonetheless.

      “Sherlock’s off to do his experiments, but he’ll be back in the morning.  That’s how we’re going to work it until you’re up on your feet.  And I got my hours amended so I’ll just be on days and can be here every night, no problem.”

      “You should not be here at all.”

It was hard to watch Mycroft’s grief deepen, but Lestrade refused to let anything show on his face.  Not going to give his artist any additional reason to sink into the murky waters.

      “Well, I am and I’m going to be.  Every night, so you might as well get used to it.”

      “Gregory… please…”

      “Mycroft, what’s going on in your head isn’t what’s going on in mine.  I’m happy to be here.  I’m thrilled.  Proud.  When I told my superior I needed a new schedule, I didn’t hide why.  I told him who you were to me and even your name.  It’s all around the station, too, and I’m glad for it.  You have no idea how happy I am with you in my life.”

Lestrade turned more fully to see his artist and startled when Mycroft gasped loudly.

      “Gregory!  Your eye!”

      “What?  Oh!  Yeah, that.  Just a little scuffle today, nothing to worry about.”

      “You must get that attended to immediately!”

      “It’s a black eye, Mycroft.  That’s not anything special.”

      “Your vision could be impaired.”

      “My vision is fine.”

Lestrade saw the slight motion of Mycroft’s arm and vaulted up from his chair to kneel by the bed.  After a second’s hesitation, the artist continued to lift his hand to caress his partner’s injured face.

      “See?  It’s just a bruise, it’ll be cleared up in a few days.”

      “How did this happen?”

Not in a way that was Lestrade going to being honest about.  Not right now, at least.  Mycroft would only drink the story as fuel for his already raging guilt.

      “Had a problem with a young idiot I was taking in.  It happens, Mycroft, not often, but it does.”

      “He will be punished for this, correct?”

      “Oh, that’s been taken care of, don’t you worry.”

Lestrade simply knelt quietly and let Mycroft run his hand across his skin and savored each second of their contact.

      “You must stay safe, Gregory.”

      “I will, Mycroft. I promise you that.”

A few more moments Mycroft’s fingers lingered on Lestrade’s skin then fell away, taking with them the warmth that the PC had been sorely missing.  Lestrade smiled and retook his seat, pulling it closer to the bed.

      “Now, how was your day?  Sherlock cause any riots or anything?”

It wasn’t a smile that Mycroft gave back, but it was a look less riddled with blackness than before and Lestrade accepted it gratefully.

      “Sherlock was quite a surprising companion.  He maintained more civility than I have seen him muster in a very long time.  And…”

      “Yes?”

      “I am very intrigued by his association with Doctor Watson.”

      “You too, huh?  They do get on well together, even shared a cup of tea.  I think they’re on their way to being friends.”

      “That would be a singular experience in my brother’s life.  I hope… he is already placing demands on the doctor and…”

      “Oh, I’ve heard.  Daft boy’s got no idea how the NHS works, but you should be happy, really.  He wants what’s best for you.  Actually almost said it, too.  And I don’t think he’ll scare John off; our good doctor seems made of stern stuff.  It would be more a matter if John is willing to put up with Sherlock’s other… characteristics.  He knows about the drugs already, though, and that didn’t send him running.”

      “Sherlock revealed himself to that degree?”

      “Amazing, right?  I’ve got high hopes, I don’t mind telling you.”

      “Perhaps I can bring myself to share your hope.  I believe I would very much like to do that.”

      “Then do.  I’m usually right about these things.  I knew immediately that we were perfect for each other, for instance, and I was right about that, too.”

The small spark of distress that flitted across Mycroft’s features troubled Lestrade and he braced for the next round of Mycroft’s issues.

      “You deserve better, Gregory.”

      “No, I deserve the best and that’s you.”

The PC reached over and threaded his fingers through Mycroft’s, squeezing lightly.

      “I’ve got the _very_ best man in the world in my life and I’m not letting him go.”

And, that was about the widest opening he could have for their _conversation_.

      “I want him in my life, in my bed, in my home.  In _our_ home, if I’m honest and you know I am.  You know why, _really_ why, I gave you the key to my flat.  What it meant in terms of the future.  That it wasn’t just a chance for you to have a place to work but… well, I guess it was sort of a promise.  A little token to hold onto for what I wanted for us.  And I want that to start as soon as possible.  I don’t want to spend any more time away from you, love.  I want to know, every day, that I’m going to get to see that beautiful smile and feel that milky skin with these big cop’s fingers of mine.    I know… I _know_ that both of us were thinking that we should wait a bit, make sure this was a good thing, but I don’t want to wait anymore, because I already know this _is_ a good thing.  The best possible thing in my life.  So, I guess I’m saying I want you to make a home with me, Mycroft.  A real home that we share and make into something special.”

Lestrade kept his eyes focused on his artist’s and wasn’t surprised that they couldn’t hide the emotional war erupting in Mycroft’s mind.  But, at least it wasn’t completely a war on the negative front.  Here and there patches of joy and hope battled to the surface, but the uglier emotions were winning by a large margin.  Tipping the balance was going to be difficult.

      “And I want it to start now.  Well, as soon as you get out of here, that is.  I want us to start on that home from the moment you set foot out of these doors.  We’ll leave together and go straight to our home and get you set up comfortably… you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

There wasn’t much surprise that he wasn’t getting a brilliant smile from his partner, but it still ached to see the tiny flash of eagerness that began to shine be quashed so completely by the typhoon of blackness that came crashing down in the next instant.

      “No.  No, I shall not agree.”

      “You want it, Mycroft.  I can tell that you do.  You want is as much as I do.”

      “That… that is irrelevant.”

      “It the _only_ thing that’s relevant.”

      “It is the _least_ relevant of the possible considerations.”

      “Bollocks!  We want to be together and that’s the only thing that’s important.”

Lestrade held Mycroft’s hand as he tried to turn away and gently pulled him back so that he couldn’t hide from their words.

      “You’re being rough on yourself again, aren’t you?  Thinking that I should be opening my door for someone better.”

      “You should!  You should not waste your life and the home your desire on someone who shall only disgrace and defile what you are offering.”

      “I’d make a rude noise, but I’d probably wind up spitting a little and I think they frown on that in here.  You’re the only person who I’ve ever wanted to be with, Mycroft.  You’re not going to disgrace _anything_.  If I thought that, I wouldn’t have let your name get spread all over the station, now would I?  Let everyone know we’re together?  If I was ashamed of you, I’d be hiding things and that’s the complete opposite of what I’m doing.  So, now we’ve showed up that argument for the nonsense it is, we can get onto important stuff, like what color towel you want.  I’m going to get a few things in before you’re released, so you’d better let me know your preferences now.”

      “I have _not_ agreed to this.”

      “You also haven’t given me any argument to the contrary that makes any sense.  If you tell me you don’t care about me… that you don’t _want_ to be with me… then that’s one thing, but you can’t.  You can’t lie about any of that, can you, because you’re an honest man.  You build a life with someone you care about, so that’s what we should be doing.  Actually, that’s what we _are_ doing, even now… you go through the good times _and_ the hard together and you get stronger because of it.  So, unless you can tell me that you don’t want me… don’t care… then you’ve got no leg to stand on.”

      “Oh… so my wishes have no place in this so-called life of ours.”

Oops.  Lestrade mentally bit his lip and hoped he hadn’t come on too strong.

      “Look, that’s not what I said…”

Ok, that was not, in any way, a reassuring glare he was being given.

      “I think that is precisely what you said.  Unless I contradict the specific points you are allowing me to speak upon, then my concerns are invalid.”

      “No… that’s not what I meant at all.  I was just…”

      “Trying to get what you want, regardless if it coincides with my own desires.”

      “That’s not true.  It’s just…”

      “Just that you have a plan that you have already decided upon and my agreement is not deemed in any way necessary.”

      “No… it’s not like that…”

      “Apparently, I shall have no say in this idyllic home you are describing.  Your word shall be law and I shall obey.  I shall, what, belong to you?  Function at your direction?  Take what you are willing to give and ask for nothing in return?”

Mycroft’s agitation was rapidly escalating and he was nearly hissing out his words, sending them into Lestrade’s heart like nails.

      “Shall you own me now; is that our new dynamic?  Tell me, Gregory, shall you now hold my contract and apply your own strikes and lashes when you feel inclined or I disappoint?  Is that the nature of our happy home?  No better than that which brought me here and into your grasping fist?”

Mycroft tore his hand away and Lestrade couldn’t bring himself to try and reclaim it.  He could barely think well enough to even realize it was no longer being held by his own.  How had this gotten so out of control?  Where had he gone wrong?  Probably from the first word he said… but it didn’t matter.  He had to fix this…

      “Mycroft… you’re not… no, it’s not you.  _I’m_ not saying things right, I guess.  But you know I’d never hurt you, love.  You know I have nothing but respect and admiration for you.  Maybe I just approached this badly and it sounded… I thought I was… I was trying to tell you how I feel and why I want you to come home with me.  Why I wanted that even before all of _this_ happened.  My flat’s not _right_ anymore, Mycroft, not since the first night you were there.  It’s empty and feels like there’s something missing.  I’m not sleeping as well as I used to because you’re not in the bed next to me.  I wanted you to understand what I was feeling and that you were the only person who could make things right again.”

Now, did he keep going or set this aside for later?  Well, the damage had already been done, so there was no reason to turn back now.

      “But, on this one issue, maybe you’re a little right.  You can’t go back to your flat, Mycroft.  You’re going to need a place that you can heal up in that’s… that’s not your flat.  You need at least have the basics and it’s not just me that says that – John and Sherlock do, too.  I don’t have a lot to offer, but everything I have is yours to help you recover.  It might be a little cramped with the three of us but…”

      “Three?”

      “Yeah, me, you and Sherlock”

Lestrade watched Mycroft blink a few times and shake his head a little as if trying to clear away something standing in the way of his thinking.

      “You have planned… you are willing…”

      “Mycroft, did you honestly believe I’d leave Sherlock alone?”

From Mycroft’s expression, Lestrade had to assume that he did.

      “No… there is no possibility that I wouldn’t make Sherlock a part of this.  Maybe I should have spelled that out earlier, but… well, I wasn’t really focused on that part.  Sherlock’s a major piece of your life and I want him to be part of mine, too.  We’ve already talked about how this is going to work and he’s fine with it.  It’ll be the sofa for him right now, but as soon as you’re on your feet, we’ll look for a bigger place so he can have his own room.  I’m not trying to make you into some kind of slave, Mycroft… I’m trying to provide a good home for people I care about and who I want to be happy and safe.”

It was a risk, but Lestrade reached over again and took Mycroft’s hand, thanking all his lucky stars that it wasn’t pulled back out of his grip.

      “Our home, Mycroft.  _Our_.  As soon as you’re able, you can go right back out to do your work or take some time and just concentrate on your paintings without the extra distraction.  You can do whatever you want!  I’d have asked you to live with me anyway, love.  Honestly, I’d have already done it, but I knew you probably needed more time to be comfortable with the idea.  Really, all I’m doing is pushing the timeframe up a bit and for what I believe are damned good reasons!  Reasons that are good for _you_.  Good for your recuperation.  But it’s not something I wouldn’t have done anyway.  Don’t think what happened to you was part of the basic decision, it wasn’t.  It just... let me ask you earlier.  Which I’m thrilled about, actually.  The more time I spend with you in this life, the happier I am.”

All Lestrade could hope was that he wasn’t babbling.  That some of what he was saying made sense.  And that it was what Mycroft wanted, _needed_ , to hear.

      “I don’t want charity, Gregory.”

Mycroft’s voice had lost the last bit of its acid, but now sounded tired.  Bone-deep tired and Lestrade wished he had something to say to give his lover energy.  He wouldn’t want charity either.  He’d politely refuse if it was offered or yell about it if he had to, but this wasn’t charity.  This was what you did for people you loved.  What you did for the people who were important to you.

      “It’s not charity.  I know you wouldn’t want or take any charity.  You’ve worked so hard... so hard... for you and Sherlock to have a good life and I’m in awe of what you’ve been able to do.  I’m not sure I could have done so well in your shoes, in fact, I’m sure I wouldn’t have done as good a job.  No charity, Mycroft.  Not one tiny bit.  It’s impossible for it to be charity since we... I don’t know… look, now’s maybe not the best time to talk about some things, so…”

      “Say everything you desire to say.  I would appreciate hearing everything in your mind on this issue.”

Wonderful.  Another conversation that should probably have waited until Mycroft was stronger.  But, at least the artist looked curious now, rather than defeated, and that was a massive improvement.

      “Ok…I… well…um…”

      “I do know you are capable of verbalizing your thoughts, Gregory.”

      “Yeah, and this shouldn’t be hard because if you think about it… no, really, if you _think_ about it, I’ve already said it.  That makes this easier, not that it should be hard but…”

      “I do believe I am returning to sleep.”

      “Bastard.  Ok… here goes…”

Lestrade wondered what he should do and decided taking a seat on the edge of Mycroft’s bed and taking Mycroft’s hand in both of his was the best option at the moment.   One deep breath and in he plunged.

      “It’s like this… I love you, Mycroft.  And before you think I’m just saying that to get you to agree to come home with me, you should know that’s exactly how I described you when I asked for my new schedule – I called you the man I love.  I’ve tried not to think about it before because I know this is moving _very_ fast and I know you would worry… well, about lots of things, but there’s no doubt in my mind that I love you with every bit of my heart.  It’s why I gave you my key.  And nearly went insane when Sherlock said you were missing.  And hurt… hurt so badly when I thought about you having to do what you do to keep you both clothed and fed.  _And_ it’s why I want you to live with me.  I love you so, so much and want more than anything to show you every day just how deep that love goes.  There’s no charity in this, Mycroft.  No pity, either.  I love you and can’t even think about living my life without you in it.  And I know that means living with Sherlock in my life, too, but I don’t mind that.  He’s actually cracking his shell a little and we’re learning to get along pretty nicely.”

If he paid attention to the tears starting to stream down Mycroft’s cheeks, Lestrade might start to choke up, too, so he pretended it was raining and barreled on.

      “It’s simple, I suppose.  I want you and our home and our life and the fun and even the fights we’ll have along the way.  I want to take care of the man I love while he’s in pain and let him take care of me when I’m the one who needs a little help.  No charity.  No pity.  Just the normal things you do for the person who puts the light in your eyes and keeps it shining.”

Ok, so maybe he was getting a little wet there above his nose, but the roof must be leaking.  First thing, he’d be writing a letter of complaint to the proper officials.

      “Gregory…you cannot love someone like me.  You simply cannot.”

      “Can and do.  And always will.  I will _always_ love you, Mycroft Holmes.  And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

Lestrade squeezed Mycroft’s hand more tightly and raised it up to press a kiss against his artist’s pale skin.  Hearing no objection, he turned slightly and leaned over, smiling to ease the worry that flared in Mycroft’s eyes, before gently laying another kiss on his lover, this time on his beautifully-formed lips.

      “I love you, Mycroft and I’ll tell you every day so you don’t ever doubt, not for a second.”

Stroking his lover’s hair was the most relaxing thing the PC had ever enjoyed and he simply sat and indulged himself while Mycroft continued to let his emotions spill down his cheeks.  If he was lucky, his lover would simply tire himself and fall back to sleep so they didn’t have to talk anymore right now.  Mycroft didn’t need any more words at this point.  He just needed to be touched and loved and that was something Lestrade was very willing to do…

__________

      “Wow, this is good.”

      “For his numerous and significant faults, Lestrade is surprisingly well-informed about inexpensive, yet palatable foods in the vicinity.”

      “I’ll have to thank him, then, because this is really what I needed.  I may actually be able to make it through my next shift with a little life now, considering I’ll be operating on zero sleep.”

      “Sleep is for those who have nothing else to do with their time.  Infants and the feeble-minded, for example.”

      “Oh, and I suppose you never sleep.”

      “Only when it is required, which is certainly not the boring pattern of nightly insentience the masses seem to blindly follow.”

      “That’s either wildly unhealthy or ridiculously useful.  Can’t say I’m sure which.”

      “The latter, I assure you.  Especially now that I must mind Mycroft during the day, as well as tend to my research pursuits in the evening.”

      “You know, it’s good of you to do that.  Not all family members want to be bothered with someone in need, so good for you wanting to be there for your brother.  And… you’ll be living with him and Greg now, so that’s going to be even more effective support.”

      “Do not remind me.  The idea of sharing a residence with Lestrade and Mycroft is near to making my skin crawl with horror, but I am nothing if not willing and able to sacrifice my mental well-being when the situation calls for it.”

      “Oh, I’m sure.  Very noble of you.”

      “As one would expect.”

      “I’m sure your brother will appreciate it.  When are you going to move in?”

      “Lestrade has indicated that I may begin transferring items to his flat immediately.  I shall begin with that before I purchase groceries.  Since you have nothing better to occupy your time, you shall assist.”

      “Pardon me?”

      “You shall assist me moving things from my flat to Lestrade’s.”

      “Uh… no?”

      “That was an incorrect guess.  Despite that and, in compensation for your labor, I shall defray the cost of your half of our meal.”

      “I help you move and you buy me dinner?”

      “I believe that is what I said.”

John stared at his companion and had to laugh at Sherlock’s expression, which indicated the student already considered the matter decided.  But, he really didn’t have much to do before his next shift started and it would actually be informative to get a look at where his patient would be living.  And from where he was leaving.  Plus… free dinner.

      “Then I accept.  But, I am not going to be lifting any heavy furniture.  Can’t do my rounds with a dodgy back.”

      “I shall assign you a portage task appropriate for your size and level of physical condition, such as socks.”

      “Oh, lovely.”

      “I am 63% they are clean, as well.”

      “This is the happiest day of my life.”

      “Your life must be rather pathetic.”

      “At times.  But I think things might be looking up…”


	20. Chapter 20

      “Oh… oh my…”

      “Yes, well… it _is_ a bit cluttered, but I can… Mycroft usually tends to the tidying…”

Sherlock began reorganizing the chaos he’d wreaked on the small flat, but John barely noticed his new friend’s frantic efforts.  As modest was his own flat, it was a villa compared to this place.  It was cold and damp, cramped and bleak and that Mycroft and Sherlock actually lived here put an uncomfortable and heavy weight in John’s gut.

      “No, it’s fine.  I was just… ok, there is no way that even if Mycroft protests, I’m letting him come back here.  I’m sorry if that offends you, but…”

      “I cannot take offense at the truth and I have no specific emotional attachment to this hovel.  It is what we can afford and that is the end of the matter.”

But there was a slightly sour tinge to Sherlock’s tone that told John his companion did harbor feelings about the flat and those feelings themselves were as sour as the off-notes in his voice.

      “Well, good then.  Your brother would have a devil of a time recuperating in here, both physically and emotionally, and I can’t stand by and allow that to happen.  Greg called it right and I have to hand it to him stepping up and taking responsibility for making sure Mycroft gets what he needs.  And that goes for you, too.  That’s really something to be proud of.  Now, what do you want me to do?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure why John’s words seemed important to him, but they did and he didn’t want to expend the time and mental effort questioning that feeling at the moment.  It probably wasn’t relevant anyway.

      “You may tend to Mycroft’s fingerpaints and crayons.  I shall obtain boxes from the attic and… bring down his paintings.  It would likely buoy his spirits to find his work and supplies waiting for him when he arrives at Lestrade’s flat.”

      “Good idea.  And it will, actually.  His art seems very important to him and if it’s present and accessible right from the start that will be a great help to his mental state.”

Sherlock hustled out of the flat before John could say anything else.  He was not used to people praising his ideas so… _genuinely_ and it was a difficult thing to know how to respond.  For now, he would let the issue lie and allow more data points to accumulate before forming a response plan.  It was the proper, scientific way to handle the situation and science was something that never disappointed him.

Realizing that he had only two hands, a lot to carry and a sufficiently large lazy streak to make multiple trips inconceivable, Sherlock began tossing boxes down the stairs and, with the last one, stacked Mycroft’s canvases and carried them down, only to be intersected by his landlady, who was standing outside her flat, taking in the boxes strewn across the entranceway.

      “Sherlock?  What’s going on?”

      “Ah, Mrs. Hudson… I regret to inform you that Mycroft and I are vacating our flat.  PC Lestrade will be by at some point to work out the details of the remainder of our lease.”

This was certainly not the most emotionally comfortable day Sherlock had experienced.  Not by a long ways.  First, Mycroft.  Then, John.  Now, Mrs. Hudson, who was tearing up and it was making his stomach churn in very unpleasant ways.

      “Oh no… you can’t be leaving!  Is it the rent?  I can talk to my husband… I can try to talk to my husband that is and…”

      “It is not that, it is Mycroft.  He… he had an accident and requires certain amenities that we do not currently possess.  We are relocating to Lestrade’s residence so that Mycroft may receive the care he requires.”

      “But… you’ll still visit, won’t you?  Stop by now and then?  You’re such good boys and it’s nice to have the company.  And bring along that lovely policeman of Mycroft’s… he’s a dear, also, and it’s always good to have… well, it’s good to have company of any form, whether they’re in law enforcement or not.”

Now that churning was taking a highly acidic turn and Sherlock was very sure he did not give his arms permission to put down Mycroft’s canvases or his hand leave to rest on his landlady’s shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze.

      “I shall make it a point to visit frequently.  And Mycroft will also, once he is able.  You are well aware of his fondness for your scones and I doubt that an armed guard could keep him away from your kitchen.  And where Mycroft goes, so goes Lestrade.  In fact… this is within Lestrade’s district, so I am certain that once he is aware your door is open to him, he shall make frequent use of it.  You do not mind unannounced visitors, do you?”

From the light that sprang up in Mrs. Hudson’s eyes, Sherlock believed she absolutely adored them, especially if they wore a uniform and had the authority to make arrests.  Though he had never pressed for any explanation for some of the noises he had heard from the Hudson’s flat or the occasional bruise his landlady sported… yes, Lestrade would now make this a frequent stop on his patrol and Sherlock would not accept any foolish statement about rules or regulations in rebuttal.

      “Oh, that would be lovely.  He’s such a nice young man… and the neighbors think so, as well.  We all feel safer knowing he takes an interest.”

      “I’m sure that will mean something to him.  And John will visit, also.”

      “John?  I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

      “Wait here.”

Sherlock ran down and grabbed a sputtering John Watson, dragging him back up and nearly shoving the doctor at his landlady.

      “Mrs. Hudson, this is John Watson.  He is a doctor and will be tending to Mycroft while he recovers.  He shall, of course, also be glad to visit with us and has a healthy appetite, which I know is something you consider important.  John, this is Mrs. Hudson, my landlady.”

John shot a highly confused glance at Sherlock, but turned his most charming smile to the older woman standing in the hall.

      “Hello, it’s nice to meet you.”

      “Oh, this is lovely.  A doctor in the family rounds things out very well, doesn’t it?  Why don’t I make you boys a nice cuppa?  I’m sure it’s chilly down there and that will warm you up better than anything.  Won’t be a moment.”

John chuckled as Mrs. Hudson scooted back into her flat, then turned and punched Sherlock on the arm.

      “OW!  Explain yourself!”

      “I’m visiting your landlady for what reason exactly?”

      “She is kind and I believe you value that in a person.”

      “Yes, yes I do… but Sherlock, you can’t go around directing my time.  Last time I checked, my mother wasn’t a tall curly-headed man.”

      “I should hope not or every medical textbook would have to be rewritten, though I believe that should be done in any case.  I have perused a number and they seem woefully lacking in vital information.”

      “Oh, care to share?”

      “Yes.  We shall begin with the physiological responses of certain organs to rare toxins.”

Sherlock began orating as he kicked boxes down towards 221C, with John close on his heels, interrupting at regular intervals to defend his medical brethren, then set Mycroft’s paintings out of the way to be collected later.  Now it was time to pack.  Pack away the few things Sherlock called his own and transport them to a new place.  Despite what he had told John, Sherlock _did_ have feelings about this move, but could find no unifying thread to tie them up into a coherent picture.  There was a sense of loss, yet also a sense of gain.  A bit of sadness, but also relief.  A bright surge of breaking free, but also a dark shadow of being captured.  It was all ridiculously conflicting, but the bare facts could not be denied, so emotions had no place in the analysis.  This action was necessary, so take it they must.  However… when there was time, he would give the issue more thought.

      “I don’t think we’re going to be able to bring this all over in one go, Sherlock.  We’re going to need a taxi as it is, even for a few boxes and Mycroft’s paintings, so unless you’ve got access to a lorry…. or… I guess I could come back with you tomorrow and we can finish.”

Sherlock broke out of his reverie and reviewed what John had just said to him.  John would do this again.  Spend more time with him voluntarily.  That was… pleasant.  Inexplicable, but pleasant.  

      “I see no problem with that plan.  We shall begin at the same time?”

      “Sounds good.  And I can fund dinner this go around.”

      “Acceptable, as long as it is flavorful.”

      “Yeah, well you let me worry about that.  You worry about the furniture.  And… ok, there’s only one bed here.  Not that it’s any of my business, but…”   

      “Mycroft and I do not engage in sex, if that is your question.  There is simply no room for a second.  He and I alternate nights on the floor.

Except on nights when the temperature was brutally cold and they _did_ share their single mattress.  However with the layers of clothing they wore to further repel the cold, sexual relations would not be possible, even if they were desired.

      “Ok, that’s good to know.  Not really the best way to start a patient’s recuperation by dropping him right into the center of a love triangle going on under the same roof.”

      “Are you always this sadly reminiscent of a tawdry romance novel?”

      “Sometimes.  I get bored once in awhile and that’s mostly what gets left behind in the waiting rooms.  Take a couple home with me now and then, for a lark.  Not bad with a hot cup of tea and a few biscuits.”

      “I shall purchase for you a shawl and a pair of reading glasses to complete your ensemble.  Mrs. Hudson will be very happy to have another of her gender and age group in her social circle.”

      “Well, if there’s tea involved…”

      “I worry about you, John.”

      “Yeah, sometimes I do to…”

__________

Ok, this was better.  Even the hot tea they had consumed hadn’t been enough to cut the bone-deep chill John developed at Sherlock’s flat and the overall raincloud of depression that settled into his brain from the stark surroundings.  He supposed that if he lived there every day he’d get used to it, but he was glad he didn’t have to.  This was _definitely_ an improvement.  It might not be more than a single working-man’s flat, but it was a huge step up from that below-ground mole hole Sherlock and Mycroft had been inhabiting.  And no, he was not paying any attention to Sherlock’s amusement as he checked each room, the heat supply, the amount of food in the house (low, but groceries was the next stop on their adventure) and finally pronounced the new house acceptable.

      “Oh joy, Lestrade will be so pleased.”

      “Shut it, you.  If this flat wasn’t sufficient to support Mycroft in his recovery, we’d be looking for another option, so be happy I’m giving it passing marks.  Have you ever tried to find a decent, affordable flat in London?  On short notice?  Might as well be looking for the cure for cancer; you’ll be about as successful.  And the sofa seems fairly comfortable, so you shouldn’t have too bad a time of it.  When I was getting my degree I had one year where there were four of us in a flat about this size and the sofa was a lumpy bastard that made you walk funny the next day.  And if I’m going to walk funny, it had damn well be for a better reason than a lumpy sofa.”

      “Are you referring again to sex?”

      “Yes.  That I am.  Distantly-remembered, but it still counts.  Not that I’m really into the kind that has you walking funny… there’s plenty of other fun to be had and that’s more than enough for me.”

      “Such as?”

      “Pardon?”

      “Both words had a single syllable, so I would not assume they would be outside the range of your vocabulary.”

      “Oh, I understood the words but what I didn’t understand was the reason you were saying those words.”

      “When one requires information, one takes appropriate steps, such as asking for it.”

      “You don’t know what other types of sex there are besides penetration?”

      “Don’t be stupid.  Your statement concerned, at its center, the ones in which you preferred to engage and that was the focus of my inquiry.”

      “You want to know what I like for sex?”

      “It is intellectual curiosity only, if that is the reason for your reluctance to answer.”

      “No, that’s not doing it.  I tell you what, ask me that again when I’ve had a few pints and you’ll have a much easier time getting your intellectual curiosity satisfied.”

      “You require the inhibition-lowering effects of alcohol to discuss your sexual preferences?”

      “It does help.”

      “Very well.  We shall add that to tomorrow’s agenda.”

John blinked, then blinked again.  So… dinner and drinks.  He wasn’t going to officially call it a date, because Sherlock certainly wouldn’t, but it was close enough to deserve a little inner ‘yippee!’’ and put some extra pep in his step.

      “Oh… ok, I’m free, so that’ll be nice.  Really, sounds like fun.  Haven’t had a night out in awhile, so that’ll be good.  Definitely good.  So, off to do the shopping?”

John hoped his babbling wasn’t highly noticeable, but from the slight narrowing of Sherlock’s eyes, he know was going to be disappointed in that hope.

      “I did say I would perform that task.  This one time.  Lestrade should not, however, become complacent and assume that I shall assume the domestic role in this household.”

      “I can’t see him believing that for a minute, actually.”

      “Good.  I have far more important concerns than the purchasing of foodstuffs.  When Mycroft is able, he will again take up that duty.  He has more than sufficient time to do the shopping and cleaning.”

      “In between making his art, of course.  Don’t lose sight of that and I’m being serious.  I mean, Sherlock… look at that.”

John had insisted Sherlock hang some of Mycroft’s paintings on the walls of Lestrade’s flat and only a part of the reason was for _him_ to be able to see them better.  They truly were amazing.  Inspiring, actually.  Whether it was a cityscape, a small slice of nature or something more abstract, they tugged at John in a way he could properly describe, but he couldn't deny their impact.  Mycroft Holmes was a wildly talented artist and John suddenly knew that if he didn’t do everything in his power to get the man well, both in body and mind, so he could continue to produce these splendid pieces, he’d never forgive himself.

      “What about them?”

      “Don’t they… speak to you?”

      “On occasion.  Now and then Mycroft produces a piece that I find particularly interesting.”

      “Well, I think they’re all fantastic.  Why hasn’t he sold them?”

      “If I had the answer to that question, I might better understand his ridiculous devotion to the poverty in which he seems determined to condemn us to wallow.”

      “I don’t think he wants it that way, Sherlock… there’s lots of things going on in your brother’s head and that’s part of what I have to figure out if he’s going to make it past this trauma.  But that’s not going to happen today, so I’m going to content myself to enjoy these lovely works and think about seeing if he’ll do a piece for me one day.  I’d pay, of course, but I’d really like something like this for my own.”

      “I have no doubt Mycroft would produce any piece for which you asked.  There is nothing he likes more than dabbling his pigments onto paper.”

      “Well, I’ll take whatever he wants to dabble.  So… food?”

      “And toiletries.  Lestrade’s shampoo is particularly malodorous.”

      “You mean it smells.”

      “I would think a member of the police force would choose something that smelled of something other than fruit, but apparently my thinking is flawed.”

      “Fruit, huh?  Not my first choice, but maybe it’s one of those special shampoos and that’s the only choice.  Toiletries officially added to the list.”

      “And paper goods.”

      “Is this another hygiene issue?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “Too scratchy?”

      “Yes.”

      “Don’t worry, I can fix you up.  My brand’s great and it’s cheap, too.”

      “I accept your assistance.  And we should leave now.  I still have a great deal of work to do before I must relieve Lestrade.”

      “Yeah, and I have to get back to the hospital soon.  I’ll admit, though, this is a good way to spend a little off-time.  I’m already looking forward to tomorrow.”

      “You are?”

      “Absolutely.”

And he was.  Sherlock might be an unusual one, but John had to admit this was the most fun he’d had in a long time and all they were doing was moving and shopping.  For his part, Sherlock was still confused by John’s eagerness to see him again, but was willing to admit that he had found the time tonight far more agreeable than if he had been forced to navigate the tasks alone.  And there was some mental ease in knowing that tomorrow at this time he would again be in John’s company.

      “I am, as well.  Have we shared enough pleasantries now, or are more required before we may leave?”

John laughed and shook his head.  Oh yes, he was most certainly looking forward to tomorrow night, especially after Sherlock had a few relaxing pints in him.

__________

Lestrade waited quietly a long time, providing a wealth of calming, soothing touches to his lover until Mycroft fell asleep.  And, he was delighted to take as his payment the fact that Mycroft fell asleep with the smallest ghost of a smile on his face.  This wasn’t the end of the tunnel, of course, but it was a little step forward.  Maybe when Mycroft woke again, his eyes wouldn’t immediately fill with pain and that would be a marvelous thing to behold.

The PC was deep in a book when he felt a tap on his shoulder and was handed a cup of coffee by a tired-looking John.

      “How is he?”

      “Good.  Or as good as he could be, I guess.  We talked, again.”

      “That’s helpful.  The more talking he does, the better off he’ll be, even if it hurts right now.  Did you… did he give you that?”

It took a moment for Lestrade to realize what John meant and laughed a little as he gave his eye a gentle pat.

      “Nah, happened on the job.  It did upset Mycroft, though.  Actually, it helped to break through a little of that big wall of his.”

      “Oh… yeah, sometimes that’s the way it is.  One thing comes into focus and other issues get pushed to the background and that’s when you can make some progress getting them to actually listen to what you’re saying.  Good, that’s good to hear.  Any chance you touched on the issue of him moving in with you?”

      “That wasn’t a pleasant part of the conversation, but we _did_ talk about it.”

      “Did he agree?”

      “He didn’t disagree, in the end.  He got mad that I wasn’t giving him much choice in the matter, which I understand and, believe me, I feel like a complete arse for doing it, but I don’t think Mycroft’s going to put up much fight about it anymore.”

      “Well, that’s better than I hoped, but try to get him to actually say ‘yes’ before he’s released.  He’ll feel better about things if he physically gives consent.  And I’ll help any way I can.  I went with Sherlock to move some things tonight and saw where they were living.  Deplorable, though the landlady is quite nice.  We all have to stop in and visit regularly, too, so be prepared to hear that order from Sherlock when he gets here.  I think he’s worried about her and I can’t see Sherlock being worried about someone unless there was a very pressing reason.”

Lestrade thought about the sweet woman who greeted him a few times when he dropped by for a visit and decided that if Sherlock was worried, he officially was too, and would make a point of popping in for a quick chat now and then, just to be friendly.  And keep an eye on things.  But there was something else that was currently begging for his attention.

      “I’ll do that.  Mrs. Hudson is a decent lady and I’ll make sure she gets a little visit when I’m in the area.  But did you say you actually helped Sherlock move?  That’s interesting.  Anything you want to add to that?”

John rolled his eyes at Lestrade’s wiggling eyebrows and busied himself with reading Mycroft’s chart.

      “Come on, John… tell ol’ Greg about your date.”    

      “It wasn’t a date.  That’s tomorrow. Sort of.  But not really.  Look, don’t listen to me.  I’m tired and…”

      “Oh no, I’m listening with both ears and I’ll grow another if I have to so I don’t miss a word.  Just start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out.  Especially the juicy parts.”

      “There weren’t any juicy parts!  I ran into Sherlock as he was leaving and since we were both hungry, we decided to grab a bite, good Chinese so thanks for telling him about that, then he asked, ok, commanded, me to help him pack up a few things and move them over to your place.  I have no idea how they were able to manage in that place, but you’re absolutely right in that Mycroft would be miserably ill-served if we allowed him to go back there in his condition.  Your place is fine though.  It’ll be a very big support for his health and I hope you don’t mind, but we hung a few of his paintings around to make it a little more like a shared space and not just your place and he’s rooming in it.  We’re going to finish tomorrow and maybe have a little food and drinks to celebrate.  Oh, and we did the groceries, too, so there’s plenty in the kitchen if you stop by early to make a little breakfast.”

If he wasn’t afraid to wake up Mycroft, Lestrade would be howling with laughter and not just from John’s slightly confused and rushed ramble.  How in the world did John and Sherlock become an item?  And they _were_ … whether it was just friendship or something else.  There was no way Lestrade could imagine Sherlock asking a near-stranger for some relocation help unless he’d made a solid and significant connection with that person.  Maybe it was because John knew so much about him already and hadn’t shied away or maybe it was something else, but it was wonderful, nonetheless.

      “Ok… yeah, ok.  I’m sure he appreciated the help, even though he probably didn’t say ‘thank you.’  And I’m glad you put up some of Mycroft’s paintings.  He’s brilliant, isn’t he?  Positively brilliant and I think he’ll be glad to see them hung up and getting some attention.  I can sort of understand why he didn’t have them up in their flat, miserable place that it is, but… this will be good.  And I get to see them, too, which is a nice little benefit.  Now, let’s hear more about this dinner and drinks part.  Do I need to be asking you about your intentions towards Sherlock, Doctor Watson?”

      “Oh ha ha.  It’s just a little evening out after we’ve done the second half of hauling their things.  Bit of time to chat and relax.  Nothing more than that.”

      “You lie for shit.  Maybe he’s not thinking it’s more than that, but is that a twinkle I see in your eye?”

      “My eyes are twinkle-less.”

      “That sparkly flash says otherwise.”

      “I’m signing you up for an MRI to check for brain issues.”

      “I mean, if you get past the fact he’s a major pain in the arse, he’s a good sort.  Smart, too, which is a nice fit for a medical person like you.  I admit he’s not my type, but I guess he could be called shaggable in the right circumstances…”

      “And you can hold on right there.  I’m not looking to get Sherlock into bed.  I mean… he doesn’t even have a bed right now!”

      “Well, if that’s your only problem, I’ll see about getting a bigger place sooner than later. “

      “Prick.  While I might admit to enjoying Sherlock’s company, I’m not prepared to admit anything beyond that.”

      “Not prepared to admit is the same as admitting, just so you know.”

      “No, it isn’t.”

      “Take it from a cop – it is.  You want that lanky form all tangled up in some soft sheets making noises you never thought that posh mouth of his could ever possibly make.”

      “Oh my god, you are completely delusional.”     

      “No, I’m completely having fun.  This is going to be great!  Now, I expect you to come to dinner every Sunday and don’t keep him out past 10:00 pm on school nights.”

      “I’m going to sedate you in a minute…”

      “Oh calm down, John… I’m just joking.  A little.  But, if you do want to maybe take things a little further with Sherlock than being friends, you’ll have my support.  Mycroft’s, too, I suspect.”

John snorted so loudly both men cut looks to Mycroft to make sure he was still asleep and then they dissolved into hushed giggles that only stopped when they were threatening to upend their coffee.

      “I’ll keep that in mind.  Are you going to get any sleep tonight?”

      “I’ll try to sneak in an hour or two at some point.  I’m good for work in the morning, but I’ll have to pull more than a couple of hours tomorrow night if I want to make it beyond that.”

      “Let me know if you need a blanket and I can grab one for you.  And you might actually go home tomorrow night for a bit, to get some effective rest, because, before you ask, I am _not_ providing you with stimulants to stay awake.”    

      “Well, there goes the last bit of use you were to me.  But you’re right… I may leave a little early tomorrow, provided Mycroft doesn’t need me.”

      “He’ll be alright, Greg.  In fact, a little time alone might be good for him, especially if it gives me time to talk with him myself or have a counselor drop by.  Now, I have other patients to see, but I’ll stop in when I can to see how things are going.  And _you_ are buying the next round of coffees.”

      “I think I can agree to that.  I’ve got about enough for coffee left in my wallet… but, please tell me Sherlock actually _did_ buy groceries with the money I gave him, because I don’t get paid until next week.”

      “Well, it was a little hard keeping him on track, since I don’t think he’s seen that much cash to spend on food in a long time, but I made sure he didn’t use it all for steaks, truffles and premium ice cream.”

      “Cheap ice cream though, right?”

      “Two containers full.  But we filled the cupboards and refrigerator nicely, so consider it a job well done.”

      “Sherlock couldn’t ask for a better wife.”

      “Now it’s coffee _and_ a pastry, you twat.”

      “Small price to pay for my little Sherlock’s happiness.”

      “Two pastries.”

__________

Mycroft cracked an eye and felt a small surge of relief seeing his Gregory sitting near his bed.  He had harbored a fear, as he struggled awake, that their conversation had been a dream.  That the man, now quietly reading, had not professed his love in such an unmistakable and heartfelt fashion.  That he had not been handed something so precious, so priceless, that it was nearly beyond his imagination.  It was certainly beyond his _worth_ , but for this moment, for this beautiful, special moment he could simply embrace the feeling and let it envelope him like the softest, warmest blanket… one rich with the scent of the man he loved.  And he did love Gregory.  Loved him passionately, unreservedly, devotedly… and for this one moment, he would set aside his fears and his doubts and let that love permeate every cell of his body and leave it’s imprint so indelibly that no matter what the future held, he would always be touched by this grace.

Finally, when he could stand it no longer, Mycroft opened both eyes and stretched a little, wincing at the pains that voiced their opinion of that action in terms not suitable for polite society.

      “There’s my Mycroft.  As beautiful when he wakes up as when he goes to bed, messy hair and all.”

Lestrade reached over and stroked his artist’s cheek, smiling as Mycroft’s own lips began to slide into a slight grin.

      “I could pet you all day, you know.  Actually, I probably will.  We’ll be curled up watching the telly, and I’ll be running my hands or my fingers over you and won’t even realize I’m doing it.  You’ll have to smack me on the head to get me to stop.”

      “That would seem a foolish thing for me to do since you _would_ stop and I could no longer indulge in your touch.”

Now that was encouraging.  Lestrade hoped Mycroft was being serious because he was likely to be a _very_ handsy person with his lover, especially after this experience.  Mycroft’s gorgeous skin was its own reason to feel the need for contact, but there was also a powerful drive in him to show Mycroft that he was absolutely adored and wanted.  If only he could be doing this with Mycroft in their bed right now… well, he’d be in there with him and he’d have so much more lovely skin to touch.

      “And my head stays in one piece… I think we have an agreement.  How are you, love?  I saw you wincing when you stretched.”

      “It is uncomfortable, but manageable.”

      “On a scale of 1 to 10, I put that as a grade 7 lie.”

      “Oh very good.  You are an astute observer of human nature.”

      “No, I just know you don’t want to let me know how badly you hurt, so I don’t worry.”

      “As I stated… astute.”

      “But, I want to worry.  I want to know what’s bothering you so I can at least be a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to lean on.  So don’t hold back, Mycroft.  Be honest with me and I promise that if I’m hurt or sick, I’ll be as honest with you.”

Lestrade grinned through Mycroft’s skeptical smirk, but he received the nod he was hoping for and relaxed a little.

      “There is pain, but that is not surprising.”

      “Enough for me to get John?”

      “Not at this time… however, I shall inform you if that changes.”

      “Ok, that’s fine….”

It was a small risk, but the PC decided that Sherlock’s activities weren’t going to remain secret once Sherlock got here, so he might as well be the one to broach the subject and see how Mycroft responded.

      “… that’ll save me from interrupting his daydreaming about his big date with Sherlock tomorrow night.”

A hundred different emotions played over Mycroft’s face and Lestrade gave an inner shout of joy when the one his lover settled on was glee.

      “A date?  Truly?”

      “Well, John says no, but he also isn’t doing a good job of hiding the fact that he _wants_ it to be a real date.  Here’s what happened…”

Lestrade outlined what John had told him, only exaggerating a _few_ things for emphasis and when he was done, leaned forward and waited for Mycroft to either lose his jubilant mood or keep his glorious smile.

      “I… Gregory, this is incomprehensible.  Sherlock is pursuing a relationship with John?  Willingly?”

      “So it seems.  Whether he’s looking for a friend or more is debatable, but I admit I’m happy about it either way.  John’s a decent person, a good solid chap and Sherlock could do a lot worse with someone like that in his life.”

      “And John’s behavior certainly indicates he is agreeable to Sherlock’s _peculiarities_.  This is momentous news, Gregory.  Truly momentous.”

So far, no comment about the fact that their evening was spent in moving Sherlock and Mycroft into their new home, so Lestrade took that as a positive sign.  But, it wouldn’t do to go on assumptions…

      “So the moving’s getting done and Sherlock’s already making himself at home at my flat.  But, we have all apparently promised to visit your landlady on a regular basis.  Actually it seems she was sort of anxious about it and Sherlock insisted we’d stop by.  And by we, I mean all of us, including John.  Something going on there I don’t know about?”

Lestrade watched Mycroft’s lips purse and his eyes cut towards him in a slightly hesitant fashion.  If that wasn’t evidence of something going on, then he wasn’t cut out for his job.

      “Nothing that I can express with certainty.  There have been incidents that raised my suspicions, but even when I tried to broach it as delicately as I could, I obtained no corroboration.  That Mrs. Hudson is concerned to be left without watchful eyes is most telling, however.  Gregory, you will…”

      “No question about that.  I’m going to be round often and I’ll spread the word around to keep watch for any reports coming from that address.  Don’t worry about a thing, I’ll keep an eye out and so, apparently, will the happy couple.”

Which drew another smile out of Mycroft and a deep sense of relief out of Lestrade.  Still no dipping into the abyss and that was worth a little reward, so this time, when he leaned over to kiss Mycroft, he let it linger and felt his heart melt when Mycroft began to kiss him back.

      “Now that’s the way to start the day right.  Or the night right.  Or whatever-the-hell-time-it-is-now right.  You are a phenomenal kisser, Mycroft Holmes, and I think I’ll have another if you don’t mind, since I’m a bit of a glutton for those lips of yours.”

This kiss lasted longer than the first and Lestrade trembled slightly when Mycroft raised his hand and caressed his neck.  When Mycroft felt that trembling, so uncontrollable and real, he allowed a small amount of his anxieties to flow away.  His Gregory desired him… as broken and dirty as he was, he was still _desired_.  This was not pity or sentiment, either; this was pure animal want and that was surprisingly comforting.  And, importantly, it made his _own_ want not seem so foolish or ill-conceived.

      “Am I interrupting something?”

      “Go away you useless excuse for a medical man.”

      “Nah, the view’s a lot better here than the emergency room, so I think I’ll pull up a chair and watch.”

      “What say, love?  I’ve never been one for an audience, but I’m open to new things.”

      “Perish the thought, Gregory.  I highly doubt the doctor’s tender sensibilities would withstand the rather tawdry things I would have in store for you.”

      “Sorry, John, but Mycroft’s got a point.  You’ll have to find someone else to take notes on.”

      “You two are no fun.  So, now that I’ve broken up this unauthorized party, I’ll take a moment to ask how my patient is doing.  How are you, Mr. Holmes?”

      “I should think we would now be on a first-name basis, doctor, owing to your imminent addition to my family.”

      “Of course.  Greg Lestrade and his big mouth.  Thanks for that, mate.  Really, I owe you one.”

      “I already bought you two pastries and coffee!  What more can you ask?”

      “You have no idea.  And for your information, _Mycroft_ , whatever he told you can probably be scaled back by a factor of twenty or so.”

      “Ah, so Sherlock’s virtue was not compromised in a loud and rather time-consuming manner?  More’s the pity…”

      “Not you, too!  Look, we’re just friends…”

      “Which places you substantially higher in status than any other person in this city.  Now, do you prefer cream or white for the wedding invitations?”

      “I am leaving and I hope you have something that itches really badly that needs a cream – which I am _not_ going to give you.”

John threw up his hands and walked away, leaving a chuckling Mycroft and Lestrade in his wake.

      “Don’t worry, love.  I’ll scratch your itches.  You don’t need his smelly old cream.”

      “I am agog, Gregory.  He is obviously intrigued by Sherlock and I believe a romantic interest is sprouting quickly.  This… this is what I have hoped for Sherlock for so long.”

      “Do you think Sherlock’s going to want that, though?”

      “Oh, not at all.  He will likely not even recognize John’s feelings for what they are and will entirely mistake his own.  But that is what those older and wiser are for, are they not?”

      “We’ve got to have some use, I guess.”

      “That we do.  And I am very anxious to get started on our work.  Very anxious indeed.”


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock walked towards the hospital and ran through the earlier events of the day… yesterday… in his mind.  It was enjoyable, so much as ordinary tasks could be.  Eating, mimicking dray animals… it should be boring at best and onerous at worst, but it was enjoyable.  And tonight, there would be more to do for which John would accompany him.  Willingly.  Eagerly, even.  Moving the last of their belongings to Lestrade’s flat, another meal and then drinks.  He had never really had drinks with anyone before.  _Near_ others, yes, but _with_ someone… no.

At least, John was someone with whom an evening out would be pleasurable.  He was not genius caliber, but had an intelligence that was notable and, like Lestrade, John had the ability to view the world in a way that provoked fresh insights.  Threw a different light on matters.  And that was… interesting.  Energizing, even.  He was not envious, either.  Jealous or snide.  John appreciated his talents, valued his knowledge; thought it to be a good thing.  When John laughed it was… not cruel.  It was companionable and John shared the joke, explained it, if need be, so he understood and was a part of it, not its focus.  Several times tonight while he was working on his projects, he found himself speaking to John, forgetting he was not actually there.  And there were other times he spoke to John, remembering he was not there, but the exercise was clarifying.  Enunciating his ideas to the imaginary John helped to bring the picture together from the tiny pieces he held in his mind.

It was all, however, a very strange and somewhat troubling thing because he had no idea what to make of it all.  However, the only way he was going to untangle the mystery was to see the evening through and take in more data.  And… other evenings might not be amiss if he required even more information.  Yes, that was certainly going to be the case because, though John was not a particularly sophisticated man, he was a complex one, and needed to be studied carefully.  For now, however, all he had to do was hope his attire matched the requirements for their activities and… presented him favorably.

__________

      “Sherlock!  There’s the… is that my jacket?”

      “I have no idea to what you are referring.”

      “Right.  Not that I mind… it _is_ getting nippy out there but… that’s your brother’s scarf.  Decent jacket, jaunty scarf… ok.  I officially approve of your date wear.  Very good choices.”

      “I have no idea to what you are referring.”

      “Broken record syndrome.  Sure sign of someone anxious for his date.  Mycroft’s going to be pleased.  He’s already making lists of flower and cake possibilities and deciding who to invite… our gift is going to be a very nice portrait for your mantle.  Well, I’ll get you something tasteless and obscene, too, but I’ll give you that at the stag party.”

Sherlock made a rude noise and dropped into an empty chair, with his legs stretched out in front of him.

      “John and I are simply going to have a sociable few hours after we finish relocating the remainder of Mycroft and my possessions.”

      “Sociable few hours is what a date is, just so you know.”

      “There is no romantic component to the time, so I must disagree.”

      “Let’s see if you’re sticking to that story when you get back.”

      “If you are hoping for some sordid tale of debauchery over which to salivate, you shall be sadly mistaken.”

      “Alright, alright… I’m just teasing, you.  You’re right, no reason you can’t have a nice night out with a mate.  I do it with my friends, so there’s no reason you can’t too.  Good for you to get out and relax a little with someone you can talk to.  Do you have enough cash to stand your rounds?”

      “I… there is some money left over from the groceries.  I was going to return it to you, however…”

      ‘However, you’re hoping you can hold onto it for the night.  Do that, why don’t you.  That’s fine with me.  The bills are paid up and we’ve got food for awhile, so you keep that in your pocket and have a nice night out with John.  It’s hard to find someone to help you move and that’s worth celebrating, on its own.  Plus, you two are having to do it all yourself, without me having to muck in, so you deserve a fun time with a few pints on my account.”

Maybe he was getting a little better at reading the boy’s face, because Lestrade was certain he saw the whisper of a grin on Sherlock’s lips and was more than slightly happy for it.   And the boy dressed up for the occasion!  Or as up as he could with an old jacket and a frayed scarf, but he’d gone to the effort and that said a lot.  Mycroft _was_ going to be pleased…

      “But, I do want to ask you if tomorrow, you could stay a couple of hours extra so I could catch a nap before coming back.  I’ll need just a couple of extra hours to put some spring in my step.”

      “I suppose I can oblige you.  If you are rendered unemployed, you shall spend even more time in your flat and, potentially, in my presence, which is not an idea I find appealing in the least..”

      “Oh good.  Keep me working so I stay out of your hair.”

      “That is the sum of it, yes.”

      “Ok, as long as I get my nap, I don’t really care the reason. But, I hope you enjoy washing dishes, because I can see a lot of that in your future.  Now, Mycroft’s had a pretty good night, so he should be in better spirits when he wakes up.  Try and keep him calm and relaxed as much as possible.  I think they played with his medication, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s feeling more pain than usual.  Let someone know immediately if you think it’s more than he can handle because you know _he_ won’t.  And, that’s about all that I can think of to pass on… anything you need from me before I go?”

Sherlock’s look of pure disdain made Lestrade laugh and, after gently kissing his lover on the forehead, the PC left to get ready for the day.  For his part, Sherlock retrieved the books he had stowed in the small cabinet next to his brother’s bed and settled in to read.  At least here, the chairs were relatively comfortable, it was warm and the nurses were not too difficult to distract in order to obtain a free cup of coffee.  Quite a welcome change from the… their former… flat.  Studying or reading was not a pleasant task within those walls during this time of year and he had to admit to some small spark of anticipation of having a comfortable place to perform those tasks.  The price was high, suffering the amorous gropings of his brother and Lestrade, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

A few hours later, when Mycroft opened his eyes, Sherlock had filled several pages of a notebook with information and ideas for his research.  For a few moments, the elder sibling watched his younger brother work and felt a welcome glow of pride.  He was an amazing young man, destined for great things and every day he loved his brother more fiercely.  Mycroft’s only hope was that when Sherlock struck out to find his fortune, he did not forget the ones who cared for him.

      “And have you made strides with your research, Sherlock?  I have not impeded your work substantially, have I?”

Sherlock cut his eyes towards his brother and was relieved that there was a slight twinkle in Mycroft’s eye to indicate he was playing and not serious in his question.

      “You have nearly undone years of my hard-won progress, but my intellect and natural talents have held back the guillotine of failure for another day.”

      “Oh good.  It would be tremendously difficult to sew back your head and minimize the appearance of the seam.  Though… oh, yes… my scarf would do a splendid job of camouflaging my handiwork.”

      “It is chilly.”

      “And, as a side benefit, my scarf is a proven enhancer for romantic appeal.  Gregory, for example, finds it most… stimulating.”

      “I may be sick.”

      “As you like; however, do try and avoid sullying you lovely outfit with your stomach contents.  That shall not add in an encouraging way to your appearance.  And… that is _not_ your jacket.”

      “It is chilly.”

      “My, you are limited in verbal repertoire today.  Might that fine garment be Gregory’s?”

      “I do not recall.  My land lit upon it as I was departing the flat.”

      “It flatters you.”

      “It does?  I mean… it is adequate for its purpose.”

      “I do believe it is.  John will be most pleased, since you cut a fine figure in it.  He is very much looking forward to your evening and will appreciate your efforts greatly.”

      ‘He is?  I mean… of course, he seems the type of individual to appreciate a collegial evening with an interesting person.”      

      “Which is you.”

      “Naturally.”

Mycroft shifted to better watch his brother and noticed the pain this morning actually felt more evil than it had previously.  But that could not diminish the joy he was taking in Sherlock’s behavior.  This was so very… astounding.  And _wonderful_.  His little brother’s first real companion, perhaps, should all go well, his first date.  A bit of pain was a pitifully small price to pay for this delightful turn of events.

      “I am happy for you, Sherlock.  Though I have interacted with him only slightly, Doctor Watson seems an honorable and noteworthy man; you shall have a very enjoyable time, I am certain.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glared at his brother in, Mycroft felt, a highly adorable manner.

      “I do not require your approval.”

      “Yet you have it, nonetheless.”

Sherlock scowled, but Mycroft smiled inwardly at its lack of heat.  Still a trace of kinship left, it appeared, and that was something he would take dearly to heart.  Another blessing of this situation… he was verifying his deepest hopes that Sherlock had not entirely divorced himself emotionally from their relationship and that he still put stock in their bond.  Maybe not a great deal of stock, but it was enough.  More than enough, really…

      “How fortunate I am.  Now, we must decide what to do about the furniture, what there is of it.”

Ah yes… it was easy to forget the foundation of his brother’s evening – the completion of taking them away permanently from their flat.  Something that still left a sourly-metallic taste in his mouth, though he could not fault Gregory’s intentions or taking action to safeguard his welfare.  It was a statement of his feelings.  Of his commitment and regard.  It was just… hard.

      “You are frowning.”

      “I am thinking.”

      “Artists are incapable of thought.”

      “Oh, how wonderfully we could debate that particular statement.”

      “You are deflecting.”

      “No, I am responding.  I was considering what is the best option for the disposition of our belongings, as per your inquiry.”

      “My opinion involves petrol and a match.”

      “So says the one who has never had to purchase said items.  They are not inconsequential in cost, even modest specimens such as ours.”

      “Do you believe we shall have need to replace them?”

      “The future is never certain, Sherlock.”

      “That is undeniable, but should I take your hesitance as proof of your intention to leave Lestrade once your recovery has been completed?”

Mycroft sighed and rolled slightly, wincing sharply at the stab of pain from his ribs.  Yes, this was certainly more noticeably than previous.  Likely they were lowering his pain medication, which could be looked upon positively, but it hurt damnably now.

      “That is not in my thoughts; however…”

      “You are concerned they are in his.”

      “Actually, no.  I am convinced Gregory is sincere in his declarations and sentiments, but… only a few days ago you would never have believed you would meet someone who would connect with you in a constructive and pleasant fashion.  How long ago was it that I despaired of ever knowing a gentle and affectionate touch on my skin?  One cannot predict the future, Sherlock.  In the blink of an eye, your universe can shift dramatically and it is best to be prepared for whatever direction that shift might take.”

Sherlock set aside his book and tried to read his brother’s thoughts from the cues he had marked over their lifetimes, but found them failing him at every turn.

      “Entering into a relationship already anticipating its destruction cannot be conducive to a healthy cohabitation.”

      “That sounded nearly psychoanalytic.  And a new shift we experience.”

And, apparently, his brother did not wish to follow the thread of conversation further.  It was something he should likely pursue anyway, but, in truth, Sherlock had little idea how to productively counsel on relationship issues.  This is something with which he would consult John.  That was, by far, more his area.

      “John will need to examine you thoroughly as you are obviously experiencing some form of mental disease.”

      “Such you have argued since you were able to form the words.”

      “And here is one I am quite skilled in forming – furniture.”

      “Yes… furniture.  I suppose… if we must part with our few pieces, they should be donated to those less fortunate than us.”

      “That would be rats, and they do not dine at a table.”

      “Pray that you never know differently, my brother.  We could have existed in far lower circumstances, so it is wise to be thankful.

      “I am thankful that when I opened the refrigerator an hour ago, it held more than air.  However, if it would stem the flood of your pessimism, I could ask Mrs. Hudson if we might store the table, chairs and bed in the attic.  There is little up there, leaving sufficient room.”

      “That is not a disagreeable possibility.  It would also be a salve to her worry that we are not forever forsaking her.  The dear woman should not be allowed to fear that she is without allies who keep her in their thoughts and will make their presence known.  Gregory has already affirmed that he shall be visible and attentive, but one cannot have too many eyes on this.”

      “I agree.  John shall also assist in our efforts.  He is… personable, so we might obtain further information on the specifics of the domestic situation, so steps may be taken.”

      “Excellent.  I shall discuss with Gregory the nature of those steps and how we might see them taken sooner than later.  And how delightful that, again, the good doctor proves his worth.  Do you have funds to properly treat him on your date?”

      “It is _not_ a date.  And yes.  Lestrade gifted me with the remainder of the funds from my shopping.”

      “Good.  Very good.  I… I have nothing with which to supplement that at this moment, but there is your incidentals fund, if you have need.”

      “I thought that was for educational purposes only.”

      “I consider this _very_ educational.  Not all lessons occur in the classroom, Sherlock, and these will be extremely valuable to you.  However, that fund is not bottomless, so kindly do not seek to impress your John with tickets to the opera and champagne.”

      “First, he is not ‘my’ John.  Second, champagne is not to my taste.”

      “My mistake.  But we shall look, perhaps, into cinema tickets for your next assignation.  That is a standard courtship outing, is it not?”

Sherlock snorted loudly, then rose and obtained Mycroft’s art supplies, which he dropped next to his brother.  Then it was a very slow raising of the bed, so Mycroft could sit up a little more, though Sherlock made note of the clear look of pain that rocketed across his brother’s features.

      “Are you alright, Mycroft?”

      “It is nothing.”

      “That is not the case.  May I… I would see your injuries to assess your progress.  Some… some of your injuries will be sufficient.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “I will begin here.”

Sherlock unfastened a tie on Mycroft’s gown and drew it over his brother’s abdomen to peer at the bruising on his side.  The involuntary hiss sounded very loud in the quiet room.

      “You are in great pain.”

      “I am on medication.”

      “I have inspected your chart; they are not providing as much as when you were admitted.  I will have John remedy this.”

      “It is of minor concern.”

      “No, it is not.  Do not attempt to downplay the severity of your injuries, Mycroft.  I know them all, I… I just had simply forgotten the full color of the picture.”

A picture that was so purple it was nearly black.  With ribs clearly evident and hip bones so sharp they could perform surgery.  Sherlock replaced his brother’s gown and turned attention to the knee, which was angry and swollen.

      “What is the status of this?”

      “The damage is not permanent, though effects may linger.  It should not impede my mobility, however.”

      “Shall it pain you?”

      “On occasion, perhaps.  I do not have the impression it will have any substantial impact on my activities.”

      “Good, because I shall not consign myself to carting your ridiculous box of playtoys to and from your squatting site each day.”

      “Of course not!  I would affix a small wagon to one of the local canines and have it do the deed.  The outcome would be identical, though far quieter and amenable.”

Sherlock covered his brother’s knee and Mycroft made note of how carefully he replaced the blanket so as not to cause further distress.  Little things, more each day… yes, there was absolutely good to be found in these circumstances and he gladly embraced it all.

      “Perhaps you could train it to do a little dance and double your daily earnings.”

      “How full of marvelous ideas you are today.”

      “Which should be of no surprise, given the extent of my intellect.  Now, I have not completed the reading I wished to accomplish this morning, so you will busy yourself with your pencils and paper while I attend to matters of consequence.”

      “And what am I to produce?”

      “Whatever your feeble talents can represent.”

Mycroft picked up the paper and began to choose between the motley assortment of drawing implements Lestrade had gathered.

      “However, should you be bereft of ideas, you might consider… an astrolabe.”

Hiding his smile was a herculean effort, but Mycroft managed successfully and, with a sober nod, began to sketch.

      “Spherical or flat?”

      “As if I would care.  In any case, spherical is likely outside your range of talents.”

      “Then I shall challenge myself and attempt the design.”

      “So long as you do it quietly, for I have no interest in having my reading disturbed by your scratchings.”

      “Of course, that would be inexcusably rude of me”

      “Indeed.  And there should be a kraken at the top.”

      “Indeed.  As if I would omit such a salient detail.”

      “Once cannot predict with you, Mycroft.  You are a man of haphazard tendencies.”

__________

  John peeked once or twice at his patient before he caught Mycroft alone and took that opportunity to stop in and check on his condition.  Not that he was avoiding Sherlock, but he really didn’t want to get teased by Mycroft with Sherlock right there to hear it.  And… Sherlock looked good.  He looked very good, actually, and John knew his own appearance after working two shifts was nothing short of terrifying.  A good day’s sleep, a nice shower and then he’d be ready to let Sherlock get an eyeful.  Not that getting an eyeful was the purpose of the evening, but it would be disrespectful to be slovenly for their night out.

      “Ah John, I wondered when you would cease your juvenile lurking and make an appearance.”

There would be something very unhappy ordered for Mr. M. Holmes’s meal tray for the next day or so…

      “Hey, I peeked in to see that everything was fine, but I’ve got other patients to tend to, you know.”

      “And they have not my very well turned-out brother at their side.”

      “Oh, is he here?  I hadn’t noticed.”

      “This is highly amusing, I must admit.  Truly, I could ask for little else as my day’s entertainment.”

      “Yep, one ice-cold sponge bath is in your very near future.”

      “That particular threat is wasted on someone who has not enjoyed hot water in some years.”

Ouch.  John didn’t let the sting of memory show on his face, but made himself a promise to think a little more before he spoke.

      “Fine then, but I think that’s rather poorly played.  Now, I’ll perpetrate something far worse and you could have just kept your mouth shut and gotten away with a lesser sentence.  And had a laugh at me in the process.”

Mycroft chuckled and John took the moment to watch for signs of discomfort which, unfortunately, were legion.

      “You are absolutely correct – it was a very poorly-played hand.  I apologize for my insulting lack of tactical thinking.”

      “Apology accepted, as long as you’re honest with me about how bad the pain is right now.”

A shadow passed over Mycroft’s eyes and John kicked himself for being too hasty with lowering the pain medication.

      “It is… manageable.”

      “So is a broken leg, but that doesn’t mean you have to suffer if you don’t have to.  I’ll push your meds back up a little to take more of the edge off.  You’ll be over the worst of it soon, but another day without extra stress isn’t a bad thing.  I don’t want your body pushing itself too hard right now; you don’t have a lot of reserves to draw on.”

      “I shall take that as a compliment for my svelte figure.”

John would have used the term ‘starved’ however, that wasn’t a discussion for right now.  Already a series of meal plans was being drawn up and it was probably going to be a fight to get Mycroft to follow them as it was without putting him further on the defensive.

      “You do that.  Now, I’m going off shift in a few minutes, so if there’s anything you need, now’s the time to let me know.”

      “Nothing that comes to mind, besides your promise that you will behave entirely in an ungentlemanly manner towards my brother tonight and return him in far rougher a shape than he departed.”

      “I’m not going to shag your brother, Mycroft.”

      “If it is a matter of etiquette, I assure you that you are fully in possession of my blessing.”

      “Leaving now.  Hope you like lots of very grey-white food for lunch.”

Mycroft’s rude noise followed John out the room and the doctor paused to try and remember at what point his life had taken such a sharp turn.  But, it seemed to be leading interesting places, so he was more than happy to follow and see where it took him…

__________

Sherlock and Mycroft spoke little during the day, Sherlock deeply invested in his reading and Mycroft in his drawing.  After the astrolabe, Mycroft moved on to a portrait of their former landlady that even Sherlock had to stop and admire, before laying his supplies aside and taking a book for himself to read.  By the time Lestrade arrived, Sherlock had tossed away _his_ books and was actually getting antsy for his evening, which elated Mycroft to no end, seeing his brother excited for his time with John.

      “And how’s my Mycroft doing?  Sherlock here cause you any trouble?”

      “Sherlock has performed his duty splendidly.  I only had to beg loudly and feign tears to garner a cup of water, which is actually a vast improvement from our usual dynamics.”

      “Great!  Then even my spectacularly-bad efforts won’t seem so awful by comparison.  You all ready for your big night, lad?”

Both Sherlock and Mycroft quickly noted the clear signs of fatigue, both mental and physical, on the PC and the darkness that dulled both his eyes and brilliant smile.

      “Gregory… what is amiss?  Please sit down and rest yourself.”

      “I’m fine, love.  Just a long day, you know what that’s like.”

      “Your ability to lie is even more pathetic than Mycroft’s.”

      “Thanks for that, Sherlock.  Shouldn’t you be out purchasing condoms or something?”

      “I would suspect John could acquire those for free, if they were required, which they are not, so kindly stop attempting to turn our attention from the subject at hand.”

      “What can I get for free and who’s got their hands on my subject?”

John sauntered into the room and felt rather pleased that Sherlock’s eyes widened at his appearance.  A nice pair of khaki-colored trousers and a green jumper that looked good against his skin, a tiny touch of product in his hair to give it some lift and John Watson was a force to be reckoned with.  and, apparently, Sherlock was already reckoning…

      “Ah, Doctor Watson.  Kindly observe Gregory and add your voice to our concern at his presentation.”

John put his confusion on the shelf for a moment and looked over Lestrade, suddenly seeing why Sherlock and Mycroft were worried.

      “You ok, mate?”

      “Not you, too!”

      “Call them like I see them.  Rough day?”

John dragged over a chair for himself and another for Lestrade and motioned for him to sit.  Lestrade looked between it and the three sets of eyes studying him closely, then dropped into the seat with a large and heavy sigh.

      “You could say that.  All days are rough, in their way, but some are tougher to handle than others.  It’s the job and you accept it.  Now, how about onto happier things.  You two ready for the big night?”

      “Gregory, it would do you well to share what is troubling you, for your clear intention to hide your distress is most troubling.”

      “Can’t we just leave things well enough alone?  This is the way it goes, Mycroft.  There’s going to be lots of days like this in the future and I’m not going to drag you through each and every one of them.”

      “If it helps you process the experiences and soothes your mind, then you most certainly shall.  Now, begin.”

Lestrade started to argue, but realized it was just going to agitate Mycroft further and that was not allowable in his weakened state.

      “Fine.  Look, sometimes things just get to you.  For a hundred reasons.  Today… we had a call… it’s especially hard when it’s kids.  A boy, just barely a teen… his dad was… well, I’ll let you use your imagination for what his dad was doing to the poor thing, but…”

Three sets of eyes now turned to a different person as Mycroft made a soft, near-whine and drew his legs up slightly in his bed.

      “Mycroft, love, you alright?”

      “I… yes.  It is simply a distressing topic.  You were quite correct in that, Gregory, but please unburden y…yourself so that you might lighten your heart.”

Lestrade looked over to John, who shrugged and nodded for him to continue.

      “Ok… well, it was bad enough what the dad was doing, but he apparently passed the kid around to his friends…”

That whine was not soft.  It was exactly what you would expect when you kicked a loyal dog and it shot Lestrade out of his seat to kneel next to Mycroft’s bed and take his hand.

      “It’s alright, Mycroft.  Really, it’s alright.  I know it’s hard to hear, but we put a stop to it and…”

Lestrade noticed that Mycroft really didn’t seem to be listening and hurriedly waved John over, Sherlock following along behind him.

      “Mycroft…”

John snapped his fingers a few times and got his patient to blink, which seemed to clear the Mycroft’s head and bring a strong surge of redness to his face.

      “Oh… I do apologize.  I s…seem to be more susceptible to tragedy today than n…normal.  Perhaps it is the fatigue.”

John looked sharply at Sherlock, who was staring bewilderedly at his brother, and tried to swallow down the bile that was rising in his throat.

      “Mycroft… is there a reason this is affecting you so strongly?”

The elder Holmes jolted sharply and Lestrade felt his lover’s hand ripped from his grasp.

      “N…no.  Of course not.  How… utterly silly to think so.”

Now it was Lestrade’s turn to feel his stomach churn as what could only be described as fear began to grow in his partner’s eyes.

      “Mycroft… did… oh, jesus… did something happen to you when you were a boy?”

Neither John nor Lestrade expected Mycroft to begin to curl into a ball and not even the pain of his injuries was preventing the contortion.  Both men shot a look at Sherlock, whose horrified confusion didn’t confirm or deny what was quickly becoming a cold dread in their stomachs.

      “Come on, love, it’s ok.  Lay back down and…”

Lestrade lay a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and found it slung off when Mycroft’s arm flailed wildly, accompanied by a shriek that John knew would probably have nurses on their way any second.  Mycroft curled more tightly into himself and John’s worry for his physical traumas spiked.

      “Oh god, Greg.  Here, help me with him…”

As soon as they laid hands on Mycroft, both men were shocked by the force of his burst out of the bed, which sent them falling back and it was only Sherlock’s quick movement that stopped his brother before he made it out into the hallway.  As expected, nurses arrived to assist and John yelled for a sedative to calm his patient, who was fighting Sherlock wildly, shouting, nearly screaming, which only intensified when Lestrade moved to lend a hand to keep his lover from hurting himself further.  In a moment, a needle drove itself into Mycroft’s arm and slowly his fight began to leave him, until Sherlock and Lestrade could actually get him into bed, where he lay shivering, whether in pain or for another reason, until his eyes simply closed and his body finally stilled.

Lestrade, John and Sherlock stood by the bed, breathing heavily and stared at the sleeping man, who was beginning to bleed from torn-open wounds and John’s fear for deeper problems rose to an even higher level.

      “Sherlock… what the FUCK just happened!”

Lestrade rounded on the younger Holmes, who was starting wide-eyed at his brother and could only shake his head in response.

      “John?”

      “You don’t need me to tell you, Greg.”

Lestrade felt an explosion go off in his head and let the energy take him for a second, kicking the chairs across the room and would have put his fist through the wall if John and Sherlock hadn’t intervened.

      “What… what are we going to do?”

John shook his head and tried to throw off the sickness running through him, knowing it was a futile task.

      “I don’t know.  I really… I just don’t know.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we dig into Mycroft's past... be warned, it's not pretty...

Lestrade wanted to hurt something.  He wanted to take something and tear it apart, then put it back together so he could tear it apart again.  Mycroft… his Mycroft… had been abused.  Violated in the worst possible way and it was eating a hole in his stomach thinking about it.  Sherlock seemed as shocked as the rest of them, so this was something his artist had suffered alone, with no one to even talk to and find support.  Not that Sherlock would likely… no.  No, he wouldn’t think like that because the boy _had_ stepped up when it was really needed.  But Sherlock would have been so young then.  Mycroft wouldn’t have talked about this with him, so he was being a complete idiot thinking he would.  That was the problem right now; he couldn’t think!  Nothing in his head seemed to work.  The only idea that was clear was that his Mycroft, a smart, talented, kind boy had been abused, like he’d seen for other boys, and it was the most horrifying image that could ever be in his head.

      “Greg?  Here, drink this.”

      “Is it poison?”

      “Close.  Hospital coffee.”       

The doctor sat down in the chair next to Lestrade’s and let out a massive sigh.

      “How’s Sherlock, John?”

      “I wish I knew.  He’s like a big empty shell right now.  No, empty isn’t the right word.  There’s something going on in there, but he’s not letting any of it out or anyone in.  He’s sitting right out there and won’t say anything to anyone.  I’m not sure I could get him to come in here to be a little more comfortable if I tried.”

      “This has to be killing him.  On top of everything else, this has _got_ to be eating him alive.”

      “Probably.  They’re not close in age, right?”

Lestrade hacked through the jungle of his brain and pulled out a memory.

      “Seven years apart, I think.”

      “So Sherlock would have been too young to do anything. He probably wouldn’t even notice there was a problem or understand if he _did_ notice something.  It won’t matter right now, but it’s a place to start if the guilt starts to kick in too heavily.  And I really should say _when_ the guilt starts to kick in because it will.  As much as those two seem to delight at tormenting each other, I think Sherlock’s going to suffer in this.  Family does, but after this recent trouble… I’ll try and talk with him, but it would help if you could, too.”

      “I will.  I’ll do whatever I can for him.  I don’t know how much he’s going to want to talk, but… sometimes he does, so… I’ll do what I can.  I’m sorry, John, right now I’m having trouble keeping my thoughts straight.”

      “I understand.  And… you’re going to need someone to talk to, also.  I’m a friendly ear, or so I’ve been told.”

Lestrade laughed and took a sip of coffee.

      “Thanks for that.  Welcome to our screwed up life, John.  Poor you, all dressed up… bet you didn’t think _this_ would be your date night with Sherlock.”

      “I’ve had worse.  At least I’m sober, clothed, in London, and don’t have any permanent ink to try and get off my face.”

And, as Lestrade noticed, he didn’t object to the term ‘date.’

      “Ah, yes.  Had a couple of those myself.  The really good ones, your wallet’s gone and there’s a man in uniform staring down at you.”

      “Doesn’t get better than that.  And now that we’ve lightened the mood, I’m going to ask you something for the record.  See?  That’s my doctor’s hat on my head.  I need to know for certain if you’re planning on seeing Mycroft through this. All the way to the end.  If not, now’s the time to slip out the door because it’ll be less destructive than if you wait for his hopes to rise and then fire the shot.”

Lestrade took a large gulp of coffee to hide the anger that rose up in him like a plume of lava.

      “I nearly punched you once for asking me something like that.”

      “I remember, so now you know I’m not asking lightly.  I just need confirmation, mate.  I… I can’t say right now that it might not become necessary to have someone installed to officially look out for him and you’re the most likely candidate.”

      “What?”

      “I’m _not_ saying that’s going to happen, so don’t jump to conclusions, but I _am_ looking ahead to all possibilities.  Already… already I had concerns about how Mycroft treats himself and now… I’m just making some plans in my head.  And _just_ in my head, nothing on paper.  But, if it’s necessary, I need to know who I can turn to.  If that’s not going to be you, then… I’ll have to start looking for other options.”

Lestrade felt his fists clench, but couldn’t go through with taking the swings he desperately wanted to let fly.  John was doing his doctor’s job and, whether it was enraging or not, he was right to do it.  John’s first responsibility was to Mycroft and his well-being and he was doing what he thought were the right things to keep his patient safe and help him heal.  And, if Lestrade allowed himself to admit it, nothing John said hadn’t drifted through his own mind at some point.  Now… he’d never quite understood how Mycroft could think so poorly of himself, do the things he did, but it made a lot more sense now and John was absolutely right.  With that secret out in the open, Mycroft was going to lose what little bit of confidence and self-worth he was holding onto.  And if anyone was going to catch that beautiful man when he fell, it was going to be him.

      “I’m not going anywhere, John.  I don’t care what happened to him as a kid… ok, came out wrong, but you know what I mean.  I love Mycroft and I’m going to see him through this no matter how ugly it gets or how long it takes.  Is that enough of an answer for you?”

      “Yes, it is.  And I didn’t doubt you, Greg; I just needed it stated clearly so I could make my professional self happy.”

      ‘I get it, John.  I really do.  And thanks.  You’ve had Mycroft’s back since the beginning and I do thank you for it.  And since you’re his personal physician now…”

      “Fuck me, do _not_ start with that.”

       “Too late.  You had your chance to slip out the door yourself and didn’t take it, so now you’re in this big leaky boat with the rest of us.  Don’t worry, I make better coffee than this swill and I’ll even get you your own cup to keep in the cupboard.  Can’t be that hard to find one with ‘John’ on it.  Any color you prefer?”

John glared at Lestrade, but at least he wasn’t yelling or protesting, so the PC suspected it was a done deal and it took a very large weight off of his mind.  John knew, John was right at ground zero for all of this and Mycroft wouldn’t be able to hide anything or underplay the circumstances as he could for another doctor.  Lestrade wasn’t so naïve that he thought John could provide all the help his artist needed, but he would be the first line of defense and that was a relief of monumental proportions.

      “We’ll continue this conversation later, don’t think we won’t.”

      “And I’m looking forward to it.  Right now though… what’s next?  You talked about having plans in your head; which one is first in line?”

      “Next?  I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t know, Greg.  I’m not a mental health professional.  I’ve done the basics in that area, but nothing… this is what those people are _for_.  How do you talk to someone about this and not break them further?  Do you talk to them immediately or give them time to let their brain settle?  Should you and Sherlock be there or will that just make things worse?  I’m going to have to consult with someone on this and see… I’ll try and find someone who’ll be a good fit for Mycroft.  Someone he might talk to.  I could take a day or so but…”

      “Sorry, John, but we don’t have a day.”

John followed Lestrade’s eyes to Mycroft’s bed where the artist was opening his eyes and they were filling with panic.  Both men leapt up, to be near the bed, but didn’t make any motions towards Mycroft for fear of scaring him further.

      “There’s my artist.  How are you feeling, love?  John ran a little fun in your drip there, so you shouldn’t be hurting too badly.  Are you, though?  If so, just tell John here and he’ll fix you right up.  Your taxes at work, so don’t be shy.  Suck up all the good drugs you can.”

Lestrade knew he was babbling, but there wasn’t much he could do to stop it.  And besides, if his tongue didn’t keep pushing out nonsense, it might push out something else and he wasn’t at all sure he was ready for that yet.

      “Go away.”

And they were back to that again.  Lestrade shared a look with John who, at least, appeared as if he expected the response.

      “That didn’t work the first time, Mycroft, so you know it’s not going to work now.  Greg here seems attached to you like a barnacle to a barge, so recognize that he’s going to stand by you and that he’s doing it because he loves you.  Accept that out of all the people out there in the world, he chose _you_ , knowing everything he knows and learning more hasn’t changed that one bit.  Let him be here for you; it’s going to help.  Believe me on that.”

Both men watched Mycroft struggle with John’s words and when it seemed like he, at least, wasn’t going to try and run again, Lestrade drew a chair close and took a seat, laying his hand on his lover’s and stroked the skin with his thumb.

      “And I do love you, Mycroft.  You know that.  I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone and what I want most in the world is to help you get well so you can… _be_ well.  You’ve hurt for so long, love, and I can’t stand to watch you keep hurting.  You don’t deserve that.”

      “I respectfully disagree.”

Now, it was John who drew up a chair, hearing the brittle defiance in Mycroft’s tone.

      “Maybe it seems that way to you and we can work on that.  But…”

And he really didn’t want to do this, but the opening was right in front of him and it might not be easy to find one as large and inviting again.

      “Why don’t you tell us what happened, so we can understand why you feel that way.”

Ignoring Lestrade’s wide eyes, John smiled comfortingly and waited for Mycroft to answer.

      “Where… where is Sherlock?”

There was no defiance in that tone.  There was nothing but fear and worry and a large measure of shame and something in that mix actually brought Sherlock out of his fugue.  As he began to peer around the door frame, John surreptitiously shook his head and Sherlock settled back into his chair, without Mycroft noticing, but leaned closer to the open door so he could hear what was being said.

      “He’s taking some time to work through things.  He was surprised by your response… and what it implied.  He didn’t know, did he?”

Mycroft started breathing very hard and very fast and John was happy he’d put a _lot_ of fun in his patient’s IV.  He’d have do a more thorough exam on Mycroft soon, but that could wait for a little, unless he started to show signs of internal issues that needed to be addressed immediately.

      “It’s alright, Mycroft.  I think we can assume he didn’t.  Just calm down, love.  Just calm down…”

Lestrade started stroking Mycroft’s hair, drawing down the artist’s anxiety until he was able to speak.

      “Sherlock was never to know.  That was… it was the reason… I had to protect him, you see?  Nothing was ever to touch him… _he_ was never to touch him…”

Neither John nor Lestrade wanted to hear what Mycroft had to say.  They truly didn’t.  But he was talking and they would listen to every word no matter how difficult it was to bear.  And both men were keenly aware of the third pair of ears trained on the conversation.

      “Your father.  That’s who you mean, isn’t it?”

Mycroft turned his eyes towards John and the doctor couldn’t remember seeing a look so completely lost and fractured in his life.

      “He was an evil man.”

      “You… you’ve never said much about him besides he wasn’t good in business.  What… what else was there?”

This time it was to Lestrade that Mycroft turned and the PC wanted nothing more than to put an end to this.  Just stop the conversation in its tracks, climb into the bed with his lover and hold him until Mycroft didn’t have a reason to ever look so destroyed again.

      “Please, Gregory…”

      “I’m not going to love you less, Mycroft, because I know the truth.  And it wasn’t your fault, anyway.”

The laugh Mycroft gave was ugly and bitter and Lestrade wished he could kiss his lover and stop that sound in its tracks, but he also knew Mycroft probably wouldn’t react well to the gesture.

      “I would not be so certain.”

      “Love, it’s never the kid’s fault.  They’re kids!  They don’t have the power in the situation and they sure as hell can’t consent, if that’s what you’re trying to tell me.”

A thought that was burning a hole in Lestrade’s chest and, from what he read on John, was information the doctor would like to know, also.

      “Consent… I… no.  And yes.  It is… you do not understand…”

      “And that’s why you have to talk to us.  Please, Mycroft.  Talk to me.  Please let me help.”

Mycroft swallowed hard and the pain of old memories flooded through him like a river that’s broken through the dam.  He had put it behind him.  Nailed it into a crate and tossed it over a cliff to where his mind could never reach and here it was, all screaming through his head.  More filth on his skin.  More shame, more loathing, more worthlessness… and here was his Gregory to hear it all.  Of course, it made sense, really.  He had dreamed of a little grace, hoped beyond hope for some small measure of blessing and of course it would be shattered in this most terrible way.  He had learned so long ago never to dream.  Never to hope or wish.  He had told that to his lover on their first evening together, walking in the quiet and peaceful nighttime, and, again, he had proof…

      “I knew… Gregory.  I knew what he perpetrated.  Perhaps not fully, but I saw.  All the looks, the touches… the summoning of young men who worked for us into his study, where the door was summarily locked.   Then there were the children of staff, merchants who delivered to the house…”

      “But… you, Mycroft?  What about you?”

Lestrade cut his eyes to John, who shrugged very slightly, having no other answer to give.

      “Me?  Ah… me.  A touch that never actually landed.  A look that soured into disappointment.  Father had very discriminating tastes, you see.  Beautiful boys.  Lovely of face and body.  That, certainly, was not me.  No, not me at all.”

When he opened his mouth to protest, Lestrade saw John shake his head and swallowed the words whole.  Now wasn’t the time, but as soon as this was over, he was going to do everything in his power to make his artist understand that his beauty was brighter than all the stars in the sky.  Mycroft not beautiful, not completely gorgeous… that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

      “Sherlock was, though.”

Lestrade nearly choked hearing John say the words and _did_ seeing Mycroft’s reaction to them.

      “Yes… YES!  You see?  You see now, don’t you?”

No, John didn’t see, but at least they were getting closer to the heart of the matter.

      “Why don’t you lay it out for me, anyway?”

Mycroft looked around a moment and Lestrade grabbed the cup of water he’d been looking for.  After a small sip, and a kiss on the forehead that Lestrade could not stop himself giving, the artist began to speak again.

      “Sherlock was, and is, so very beautiful.  If I had skill with clay or marble, I would have sculpted his beauty long ago.  I… I was not up to Father’s standards, but Sherlock… I saw the looks begin.  The touches that lingered.  Sherlock was so small and already… already the eye of the devil was on him.  Mummy would not hear a word of it.  She _never_ would hear a word about Father’s behavior.  Always a change of subject, always I was mistaken or lying or creating fantasies in my head.  I _was_ artistic, you know.”

Now the tears began to fall and they rolled very slowly down the artist’s cheeks, not that Mycroft had any awareness they existed.

      “I was drawing one day, you see, and stayed rather late to watch the sunset.  Then the moon and the way the branches of the trees glowed with blue-white light.  I didn’t arrive home until late and I stopped in to check on Sherlock, as I always did before retiring and… there was Father.  He was not… he perpetrated no atrocity, however, he was staring with a look I knew well and running his hand across Sherlock’s blanketed thigh… it was not a Father’s touch but a lover’s and…”

Mycroft waved for more water and Lestrade jumped to comply, using a finger to wipe away Mycroft tears as his lover drank.

      “I pulled him out of the room.  I had never laid a hand on him, but I pulled him out of there and saw… saw so clearly in his eyes his intentions for my brother.  I could not allow it.  He could not defile Sherlock, as he had the others.  So… so…”

This time it was Mycroft who grabbed Lestrade’s hand and the PC squeezed back to show support.

      “I told him… I knew he didn’t want me.  I did not meet his expectations, his criteria.  But he could have me.  However he wanted me.  There would be no restrictions, no refusals.  Whatever he desired, in his deepest, darkest heart, he could have.  The only condition was that he leave Sherlock alone.  _Never_ lay a hand on him.”

      “How old were you?”

John didn’t want to ask the question, but he also knew he needed to understand how deep this trauma went.

      “Fourteen.  Sherlock was so very young and so very, very special.  Already it was clear how keen was his mind.  How great were his talents.  A special, wonderful boy and I could not… I could not let that be destroyed!  I loved him with all my heart, as I do still, and I could not allow that tragedy to befall him!”

Now the tears were flowing harder and Mycroft wasn’t the only one for whom they were falling.

      “And he agreed!  As grotesque and without merit as he saw me, his temptations, his lusts were too strong.  A perfect willing playtoy.  And I was… oh yes, perfect and willing.  It did not matter what he asked, what he did, I endured it without a moment of complaint as I had promised.  It was easy to hide the marks when I wore them, so that no one suspected anything.  And it was not as if Mummy would have cared if she noticed.  And his colleagues… how delighted they were with their new amusement!  One, two, three would arrive and… such interesting ‘business’ matters were conducted in Father’s study with his particular friends in attendance.  But Sherlock stayed safe, so all else was inconsequential.”

Lestrade raised the hand he was holding and pressed it to his trembling lips, desperate for some way to wash away the years, the memories, the horrors that his love had suffered.  This was beyond cruel, beyond sickening and if Mycroft’s father hadn’t died in that fire, Lestrade was not at all certain that the man would see one more day on this Earth.

      “But do not cry, Gregory… it is not so bad as it seems.  You see, I turned it to my advantage.  When Sherlock and I were left alone in this world, I had a skill!  A marketable skill with a client base already established!  I could earn in a few afternoons more than I could in a week minding a till at a shop.  Sherlock’s needs were tended to and I… I could paint.  I could finally, finally paint in the way I most desired.  I could put my whole self into my work and let the pieces be conceived and born the way I never could do at home.  I was free… finally, I was free to do the one thing I wanted to do and how nice I could fund my bliss in a manner that was familiar and profitable.  It was just… London is a different beast.  Costlier, so much costlier, and there is greater… competition.  Handsomer, more talented competition…  That was my only misstep and such a terrible one to make.  I saw the opportunity for Sherlock… a good education, far better than I could ever afford to give him… but look what it has wrought.  My dearest baby brother living in squalor, turning to drugs to erase the tedium of the life to which I have sentenced him.  But I do not claim defeat, not totally.  He did not become me… Sherlock did not become _me_ and that is the only thing that truly matters.”

It was Mycroft’s little smile that crushed the last bit of life out of Lestrade’s heart and he didn’t care if everyone in London saw him weep.  His amazing, stunning, brilliant, caring Mycroft… how could this happen?  How could… no.  He knew how it could happen and why, despite the seemingly obvious solution, Mycroft wouldn’t go to the police.  Kids never did.  They suffered in silence and never told anyone.  His beautiful, funny, perfect Mycroft... if it took the rest of his life he’d work every day to make his artist see the truth about who he was.  See the beauty, the talent, the thousand things that made him the most wonderful man Lestrade had ever known.  For now, though, the PC settled for slowly and gently sitting on the edge of Mycroft’s bed, caressing his lover’s cheek, and wiping away the tears, though more fell to take their place.  That was ok, too.  Mycroft needed to let these tears flow and he’d offer his own to the struggle.  His Mycroft… he was safe now.  Nothing would hurt him or humiliate him or scorn him… nothing and no one.  He would see to that.  Make it happen.  Make his artist happy and tell him every day he was loved and treasured as someone who brought light to a lowly PC’s life.  He’d do that.  Every day and in every way… his artist would never suffer again.

__________

John wiped his face and quietly left Mycroft and Lestrade alone in the room.  Seek and ye shall find… whatever arsehole said that should be boiled alive for giving such stupid advice.  And there was one of them who hadn’t made the choice to seek and he was sitting in his chair outside the door with his legs pulled up and his face pressed into his knees so only a riot of dark curls was visible.

      “Sherlock?”

There was no response from the student and John took the empty seat next to him, resting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

      “It’s alright, Sherlock.  It’ll be alright, I promise you.”

Still no response and John actually had no idea what that meant.

      “Would you… how about we take a walk.  We don’t have to go far, but maybe a little walk to get some fresh air?  Would you do that?  Take a walk with me?”

The mane of curls shifted and a red-rimmed eye stared at John, who was smiling encouragingly.  Probably, John thought, much like you did when you tried to coax a cat out from under the bed.  But, it did the trick as Sherlock nodded slightly and began to unfurl his legs.  A little more coaxing and the student finally rose and followed John, who stopped at the nurse’s desk to leave word for Lestrade that he’d be out with Sherlock for awhile and an order for a sleep aide to be given to his patient, who desperately needed some rest and time free from thinking.  Then, slowly and calmly, the doctor escorted his new friend towards the exit.

      “We’re going to get him through this, Sherlock.  Greg, you, me… I promise that we’ll get him through this.”

Sherlock simply nodded again and John found he couldn’t stop the hand that reached out and ran up and down the student’s back.  It _would_ be alright.  It had to.  John wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if it wasn’t.


	23. Chapter 23

Lestrade clasped Mycroft’s hands for a long time as his lover wept, then couldn’t hold back any longer and crawled very slowly and carefully into the bed with Mycroft and held his artist gently as the tears continued to flow.  He could feel his Mycroft fracturing into a thousand pieces and he needed to be here, right here as close as possible to catch each one as it fell away so he could put them back together.

His Mycroft, his beloved Mycroft had suffered so terribly and never let it show.  Never let it turn him ugly or cruel.  Never let it taint the art he loved so much.  His pieces were full of love and joy and a beauty of spirit than _anyone_ would envy.  He had safeguarded his brother and continued to do that without anger or resentment.  How could someone, anyone, do anything to this man but adore him?  Love him deeply and want the very best for him?  How could a _father_ do that to him?  Not that he thought his son was even good enough to defile… right now, if he wasn’t needed to comfort his artist, he would give in to the rage that was starting to burn out his insides and go on a rampage that would probably get him locked up for awhile.  And that could not happen.  He had to keep his head and be strong for Mycroft and Sherlock, not some maniac that couldn’t be relied on when he was needed.

And poor Sherlock… what it must have done to him to hear what his brother endured, what Mycroft _chose_ to endure for his welfare.  Lestrade hadn’t known them very long, but it was enough to know that Sherlock’s method of interacting with his brother wasn’t kind.  He _was_ resentful.  And contemptuous.  And insulting.  And even if there was a true affection somewhere buried under the ugliness, and Lestrade knew there was, it didn’t erase what must have been very difficult years for Mycroft to weather.  Now, knowing the truth… Sherlock must be shattered.  He had to hurt miserably not only for what his brother endured at their father’s hands, but _why_ he suffered it.  And for all the years that followed when he swallowed that hurt so that Sherlock never had to know.

      “Gregory?  You are still here?”

The pained surprise in his lover’s voice broke Lestrade’s heart anew and he gave Mycroft the firmest hug he felt safe offering.

      “I will always be here, love.  Always.”

      “But… now you know.  You know it all!  The depth of my unworthiness, the sheer breadth of my disgrace.  You cannot remain now… you simply cannot.”

Lestrade watched Mycroft try and pull away from his embrace, but it was a weak and feeble attempt, and the PC hoped that it reflected a subconscious desire not to be let go and not a downswing in his lover’s physical condition.  Regardless, Lestrade held fast to Mycroft’s frail body and placed a small kiss on his head to help soothe his upset.

      “None of that changes anything, Mycroft.  I love you as much now as I did the day I gave you my key.  And there is _no_ disgrace to speak of, not a single bit.  You were terribly brave for what you did.  You have a wonderful, loving heart… I can’t even imagine how big it is to do that for Sherlock.  That kind of person, one who could love so deeply that they’d suffer what you did to keep someone else safe… that’s a person to admire.  To love fiercely and I do.  Your father is the one who’s a disgrace.  People like that give humans a bad name and if he was alive I would make that crystal clear to him.  Multiple times, each more painful than the last.  But not you, Mycroft.  You were a kid; a kid who was trying to do what was best for his brother.  There’s nothing disgraceful about any of that.”

      “And after?  I bartered myself, Gregory, and I did it willingly.  That is in no manner admirable.”

      “You were still a kid when it started!  You… it was what you _knew_.  It made sense at the time and… I would bet that if John was here he’d tell you all the things that being abused like that did to your head and your thinking, but I know that if you’d never been hurt, you would never have even thought about walking that road.  You would have found another way, but you did what you knew you could and even if you try to convince me that you did it so you had more time to paint, I’m going to listen patiently and not believe one word of it.  You probably thought so at the time and most likely still do, but… I’ve seen what abuse like that does, Mycroft.  How it twists the brain and screws with your thinking.  We’re going to talk about this, you and me, as often as you want to.  As often as you _need_ to and I’m going to show you every time why this isn’t your fault and why I still love you with everything in me.  I’m going to listen to every detail you want to purge from your system and I’ll still take you into my bed and make love to you because you are the most exciting, arousing, captivating man on the planet.  I’m going to continue to want your body, your heart and your mind in every way I can have them because they are more valuable to me, more treasured, than I can ever find the words to express.”

It was worth every bit of pathetic dribble coming out of his mouth to feel his artist cling tighter to his body and begin to shed a new round of tears.  Anything it took, no matter how difficult or costly or silly or ridiculous… no matter what it took, he would see his Mycroft recovered from this trauma.  From all the traumas.  He wasn’t stupid enough to believe it would be easy or happen quickly or that his artist wouldn’t carry scars, physical and mental, for the rest of his life… but he’d be better.  He’d see himself more like others saw him, start to understand why he was such a special and wonderful person.  Accept that at least one lowly PC thought he was worth giving his heart to.

      “I’ve spread around the word that I love you desperately and I’m going to keep spreading that word, love.  You’re going to be the one on my arm and I’m going to introduce you to everyone I know as the person I’ve fallen in love with.  I’m proud of you, Mycroft.  Proud of who you are and what you can do and I want everyone to know that.”

      “You should have someone clean upon your arm, Gregory.  Someone clean and dignified…”

      “I do.  And I’m going to continue to do so, because you’re going to be there at my side until we’re old and gray.  Which, with Sherlock, could be next week.”

Oops.  That was a serious misstep as Mycroft’s body stiffened sharply and a truly empty and broken groan sounded in the air.

      “He will discover this, will he not?”

Honesty or kindness?  Mycroft urgently needed both, but, perhaps, at this moment in time, he needed the honesty more.  When Sherlock came back, there’d be no hiding he’d heard their conversation and Mycroft would suffer horribly being blindsided.

      “He already has.  He was outside when you were talking.  I don’t know exactly what he heard, but I’m sure he heard enough.”

      “No…”

At least Mycroft still allowed himself to be held and Lestrade wrapped as much of himself as he could around the artist, who was shaking as if he was caught in an earthquake.

      “John’s with him, love.  Took him out for a walk.  The nurse told me when she tried to give you that shot to help you sleep.  Which I’m going to ask you not to fight this time when she comes back to try again.  A little rest will be good for you.  But don’t worry about Sherlock.  John will take care of him and I’ll talk to him, too.  He’s going to get whatever help he might need after hearing… what he heard.”

      “He already hates me, Gregory… what this shall do…”

      “He does _not_ hate you, Mycroft.  You _know_ that; you’re just saying it because you’re upset.  If he hated you, he wouldn’t have come to me to find you.  He wouldn’t have insisted on helping me track you down.  You didn’t see him in that fucking torture chamber, love… he was so scared for you and white-hot angry at that sadist.  He felt so guilty for what he’d done and hurt so badly for what had happened because of it.  What happened to you tore him to pieces and you can’t explain that with hate.  He’s angry and frustrated by what he sees at what his life should be versus what it is, but that applies to so many people I’m not even going to bother to estimate.  He blames you for that, but he’d find someone to blame not matter the circumstances.  This _is_ going to shake him, there’s no doubt about that, but I don’t think it’s for the reasons you may believe.”

      “Sherlock shall be scandalized, more so than ever.   He will despise my weakness, my immorality… he already does!  This shall… there shall be no healing this breach.  I have lost him… I have lost Sherlock…”

These new tears were even more bitter than those that came before and it was all Lestrade could do to hold his artist and let him pour them out so he had any chance of understanding what the PC had to say.  It took what seemed like hours before Mycroft finally exhausted himself and lay quietly in Lestrade’s arms, so the PC’s words again began to flow.

      “You haven’t lost Sherlock, Mycroft.  I promise you that and I wouldn’t promise if there was any, _any_ , chance that promise would be broken.  He’s going to surprise you, love.  He’s going to show you that you’re completely wrong about your thinking.  He’s going to continue to be the bratty, bossy little pisser he’s always been and he’s going to keep looking to you to get him out of jams and be the one who’ll forgive him when he screws up and the one that’ll take it when he needs someone to rage at when the world gets too much for him to take.  He’s going to need his big brother as much now as ever; even more, actually, because his world’s been upended and someone has to help him make sense of it all.  Don’t worry you’ve lost him, Mycroft.  You haven’t.  I promise you that with all my heart.  You have _not_ lost your brother.”

Mycroft’s sigh was rich with disbelief and heartache and Lestrade laid another kiss on his head to demonstrate his unceasing affection.

      “You are simply attempting to bolster my spirits.”

      “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean what I said isn’t true.  I’ve… I’ve had the chance to see something in Sherlock I’m not sure he even realized was there and I _know_ what I’m talking about.  You’re not losing him and you’re not losing me.”

      “I should.”

Lestrade gave his own heavy sigh, but at least, now, there was something in Mycroft’s voice other than bleak despair.

      “No, you prat, you shouldn’t.  Look, I want you to tell me something.  Do you love me?”

      “Gregory…”

      “Answer the question.  Do you, Mycroft Holmes, love me?”

It actually worried Lestrade that Mycroft took awhile to answer.

      “I do.  I should not, for I have no right to do so, but I do love you.  Deeply and enduringly.”

      “Then that’s all that matters.  You love me and I love you.  I don’t care what happened in the past because you’re my present and my future.  We’re going to get you well and we’re going to have a good life together.  _Together_ , you understand?  And Sherlock will be right there up our arses, though I suspect John will be running interference for us now.  We’re going to have a life, love.  _Our_ life and I can’t begin to tell you how much I want that.  How lucky I feel that I found you because I can’t see sharing a life with anyone more perfect for me than you are.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, but his clinging to Lestrade’s body slowly began to morph into a nestling against the PC’s strong form and Lestrade stayed silent, gently stroking Mycroft’s hair and letting the artist take whatever warmth and comfort he needed.

      “Truly, Gregory… you shall not leave me?”

There was still a heartbreaking sadness in his artist’s voice, but also a hesitant hopefulness that brought a smile to Lestrade’s face.

      “I’m not going anywhere.  And, if it’ll help, I’ll go out tomorrow and get myself a tattoo with your name on it so there’s no doubt who I belong to.”

      “Good heavens.  I absolutely forbid it.  My mind is positively aghast at the idea.”

Now that sounded a little more like the Mycroft he knew and loved.

      “Oh?  Any reason why?”

      “Deface your exquisite flesh with atrocious and unquestionably illegible script?  I shall not stand for it.”

      “What if _you_ design it?”

      “Pardon?”

      “You.  What if you draw the design for me? Your name or our names or something that is meaningful to us.  I’d be proud to wear a Mycroft Holmes original on my body.  Big sign to anyone who sees it how much I love and am ferociously proud of the person who that piece is for.”

      “Hmmmm…. that is an interesting suggestion.”

      “Carte blanche.  You come up with something that that you like and says that I am 100% committed to you and I’ll find the best tattoo artist in the city to ink it.  And you can choose where it goes, too.”

Again, Mycroft was very quiet, but there was a difference to this silence and the PC was ecstatic for it.  His artist was thinking…

      “I shall ruminate on the issue.”

      “Would you like to ruminate with your pencil?”

      “Perhaps.  However… not at this moment.”

      “Just want to lay here awhile?”

      “Yes.”

Mycroft curled further into Lestrade’s body and received a third kiss on the top of his head as his reward.

      “Then that’s what we’ll do.  For as long as you’d like.  And when that nurse peeks in again, you let her give you whatever John ordered so you can really get some rest.  Ok?”

      “If you think it necessary.”

      “Necessary?  No.  Helpful?  Yes.  A couple of hours of deep sleep is going to make you feel better and that’s the most important thing right now.  Maybe I’ll even take a little nap, too.  So, you just lay there and relax.  I’m right here if you want to talk about anything.”

      “Thank you, Gregory.  For… for everything that you are to me.  I love you; never believe that I do not.”

      “I love you, too.  And, soon, it’s going to be writing right across my bum.”

      “I disagree.  That portion of your anatomy shall remain unsullied by ink.”

      “Will you sully it with something else?  Maybe something you make yourself?”

Mycroft tilted his head and the PC grinned widely at the almost shocked expression on his lover’s beautiful face.

      “Gregory Lestrade… are you being salacious?”

      “Does that mean naughty?”

      “It does.”

      “Then, yes.  I am being poshly naughty.  Like it?”

      “I shall not deign to answer.  But, yes.  I do.”

Lestrade chuckled softly and gave Mycroft a final soft kiss as Mycroft returned back to his nest of loving flesh and bone.  His artist wasn’t healed; he wasn’t fixed and there was still a long hard road ahead of them, but Mycroft was going to let them travel that road together and that was a tremendously important thing.

      “Then I’ll stay as naughty as I can for you.”

      “You are a wicked man, Gregory Lestrade.”

      “I try.”

__________

  John walked silently by Sherlock as the taller man strode, hands in pockets, along street after street, occasionally reaching out to grab a sleeve when Sherlock began to walk into traffic or barrel through a knot of people standing in front of a shop window.  It became obvious that Sherlock would walk all night if John didn’t intervene, so he gently steered the student towards a welcoming pub and took a booth out of the way of the other patrons, putting in a drinks order before they sat.

      “There.  Much warmer.  I was getting a little chilly out there, though the exercise did keep away the worst of the cold.  And a good lager should chase away the last of it, so isn’t it convenient that we’ve got them coming?  I’ve been here before and can vouch for the food, too, so we can get a little something if we get hungry.  Which I probably will.  That’s one thing you can count on with John Watson, I’m always up for a plate of something.  Or a good cup of tea.  I guess that’s two things you can count on with me, actually.”

John looked around for a needle and thread to sew his mouth closed because it did _not_ want to stop running.  After saying nothing for the past hour it was as if his system was rebelling and making him pay dearly for keeping quiet.  Not that Sherlock seemed to notice.  Nor did he notice when their drinks arrived and John reached over to wrap his hands around his glass.

      “Take a sip, Sherlock.  It’ll do you good.”

And, surprisingly, Sherlock lifted the glass and took a long drink.  Eyes just as blank and still as silent as an empty church, but he obeyed and that was how the next hour or so was passed.  John found that simply nudging Sherlock’s hand upward would make the student drink, or eat after John ordered a nibble to cut the alcohol, but it was as if Sherlock was operating on automatic without any conscious thought.  After a long while, John despaired of breaking through Sherlock’s shell and was about to see him safely back to Lestrade’s flat when life flowed back into his companion’s eyes.  Eyes that focused directly on John with an intensity that made the doctor squirm in his chair.

      “How could he do such a thing?”

John’s anger began to rise at such a judgmental question, but his brain nicely pointed out the tone of Sherlock’s question and the specific emphasis on one word.  _How_.

      “Because he’s strong and because he loves you.  That’s a powerful combination, Sherlock.  When they talk about someone moving mountains, those are the things that make it happen.”

      “It was stupid.”

      “Not from his perspective.”

      “Foolish.”

      “It was what he thought he had to do.”

      “Indecent.”

      “Many would agree, but I’m not judging him for doing what he did to spare you the same fate.”

      “He remained silent.”

      “Yeah, abused kids usually do.  And he probably was scared of what people would say if they knew the whole truth.  Probably scared of what they’d think of him.  What _you’d_ think of him.”

      “He _remained_ silent.”

Oh.

      “Mycroft is absolutely devoted to looking after your welfare and I suspect he believed that any admission would work against that.  He was visibly distressed when he asked where you were before talking to Greg and me.  He’s tried his whole life to shield you from things; do you really think he’d just come out and admit to you what happened to him when he was a boy?”

      “It was cowardly.”

      “Ok… maybe that was part of it.  But, can you imagine what must have been going through his mind all these years?  What he believed it said about him that he did those things?  What people would think of him?  Say to him?  Do to him?  If Greg was anyone but who he is, Mycroft would very likely be alone right now in an ever deeper well of pain.  Can’t blame him for wanting to protect himself, can you?”

From Sherlock’s very confused expression, John wasn’t sure the student had an answer for that question.

      “Mycroft has lived with an enormous amount of guilt and hurt and shame and he’s done what he needed to keep you from suffering any of it _and_ to keep himself together at the same time.  I have to hand it to him… he’s done a good job of it from what I can tell, but don’t think it hasn’t affected him, Sherlock, it’s been part of everything he’s ever done.  Every choice, every decision, every action… things you believe made no sense do, actually, if you understand what’s been shaping his thinking.  If you understand that his mind hasn’t let him do certain things or made him do others, even if you can’t see the point or sense of it.”

      “And it’s my fault.”

      “I didn’t say that and I do _not_ believe it.  Nor does Greg or even Mycroft.  No one thinks you’re to blame for anything.”

      “It _is_ my fault.”

      “No, the blame rests with your father and that’s the end of the story.  You didn’t do anything, Sherlock.  You _couldn’t_ have done anything.”

      “I COULD HAVE NOTICED!”

Sherlock nearly bellowed the words and John looked around to check that they weren’t about to be shown the door.

      “How?  How, Sherlock?  You were a small boy.  You had no idea of… of any of that!  How would you have noticed?”

      “I should have!  Mycroft had to… he had to show some sign, had to carry some clues, some… evidence.”

      “And, maybe, if you were an adult and a detective when it happened, you might have observed something, but you weren’t.  You were a child!  Maybe a very smart one, but still a child.  And I would wager that Mycroft is very, very good about hiding things he doesn’t want people to know.  It his instinct, his _talent_ , to keep a calm face and not let the turmoil inside him show. Don’t take this on yourself, Sherlock.  It’s not yours to own.”

      “Then who?”

      “No one.  No one owns this situation, but it’s on us to try and help Mycroft through it.”

      “No.”

John blinked back his surprise and hoped he hadn’t heard that correctly.

      “Excuse me?”

      “He will not allow it.”

      “Oh… ok, I won’t deny he might try and just cram all of this back into some box in his head and nail shut the lid or think he can work through things without anyone’s help, but we’re not going to let him.  We’re _not_ going to let him keep suffering, keep hurting himself... Mycroft may have been holding himself together and managing to get by for a long time, but he’s been doing it in some not very healthy ways.  And this new trauma, _all_ of these new traumas… I’m extremely worried about him, Sherlock.  Worried that you’re right, too.  But that just means I’m going to try harder for him.  I’m not going to let him fall any further and I will do everything I possibly can to help him recover from this nightmare.  I know Greg feels the same way and… I hope you do, too.  It would help Mycroft tremendously if you were on his team, even if it’s difficult for him, and you, at first.”

John watched Sherlock stare again into the distance and knew that Mycroft wasn’t the only one who needed help right now.  The guilt the older brother felt was echoed in the younger one and it was just as burning and debilitating.

      “I don’t know what I can do.”

      “Tell you the truth, I don’t either.  This isn’t my area, Sherlock.  Not at all, but I’ll find out what I can.  And get Mycroft the most talented help I can find him.  Besides that… sometimes all you need to do is be there for someone.  Be the ear when they need to talk or be the shoulder to lean on when they need a little support.  Or… just be a fixed point they can count on to stand strong so the world seems alright for awhile.  There aren’t any hard and fast rules for this, Sherlock.  Save one.”

      “Which is?”

      “Don’t give up.  Don’t ever, _ever_ , give up.”

Giving up?  That was not possible.  There was much in his life about which he was not proud, though he kept that particular truth buried deep in his soul, and this would not be something he would add to that festering miasma.  John was an idiot – this _was_ his fault.  Mycroft’s miserable life was entirely his fault and there would be an oily and repugnant shadow haunting him like an evil spectre if he did nothing to make right his wrong.

      “No, I shall not.  I simply… where do I begin?”

      “By being there.  Even if you don’t talk about anything meaningful, just being there is going to comfort him on some level.  Probably going to upset him, too, but knowing you’ll be there for him, that you’re not going anywhere, even if he tells you that’s what he wants or that’s what’s best for you, is going to be important.”

      “Then we should return.”

      “No… right now, let Greg and Mycroft have some time alone.  Greg probably has the best chance right now of calming your brother down and providing that first line of reassurance – that he’s not going to be abandoned.  That’s he’s loved and wanted and cared for… And I know this will probably make your toes curl in a bad way, but he can provide the human contact that Mycroft’s going to need to make those words seem real.  People talk about the healing power of touch because it’s true.  It really helps and that’s going to be Greg’s special gift… one that’s desperately needed right now.  You’re supposed to take over for him in the morning anyway and that will be soon enough.  Give them the opportunity to talk and for Mycroft to rest.  You should to get some rest, as well.  You need to take care of yourself now more than ever.”

      “I do not require sleep at this time.”

      “I don’t mean this very second, I mean tonight at some point.  And you _will_ want to be rested, Sherlock.  Even if tomorrow you never touch on the big cat that clawed its way out of the bag, you’re going to feel the stress of it and the last thing you want to be is tired and cranky when dealing with your brother.  It won’t be good for him.”

      “I am never cranky.”

      “You’re the king.  Go to Crankyland and there’s your smiling face all over the currency.”

      “They should be honored.”

      “Oh, I’m sure they are.  Everyone hoarding their money just so they can look at your face all day.  Stamps, too.”

      “I _would_ make an impressive stamp.”

It wasn’t much of a smile, but there was a very welcome twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes and John breathed a huge mental sigh of relief.  Not that he was fooled into thinking his friend was past the crisis, but this particular wave had broken and they could enjoy the lull until the next one.

      “Well, Your Majesty, the next round’s on you.”

      “Is it your intention to get me intoxicated this evening?”

Well, that _had_ been the plan, but there would be another time for that.

      “Innocent little me?  Nah, but it’s good to get a little pissed now and then, especially when you’re not doing it alone.  A few more rounds, maybe a bit more to eat and then I will gallantly walk you home so you can get some sleep.”

      “I do not require an escort.”

      “Don’t knock the John Watson escort experience until you’ve tried it.  There could be musical entertainment involved.”

      “Please tell me you’re joking.”

      “And jokes!  Thanks for reminding me.”

      “This will require copious amounts of alcohol.”

      “Then aren’t we lucky we’re here.”

__________

After their copious amounts of alcohol, but not so much they were in danger of crawling home, John made good on his promise and walked Sherlock back to Lestrade’s flat.  The conversation for the remainder of the evening had stayed safely away from distressing topics as if by an unspoken agreement, but John was keenly aware that part of Sherlock’s mind was continually dwelling on his brother.  There were enough little signs that Sherlock was consciously fighting off the pull of his darker thoughts that John kept the liquor flowing until those signs became fewer and further between.  Some good, healing sleep was what his friend needed and a mind plagued by this fresh assault of guilt wasn’t going to help with that.

When the flat was in sight, John noticed Sherlock’s pace slow and he almost seemed to drag his feet as he walked up the steps, stopping at the door of the building and hovering like he was unsure what to do.

      “Sherlock?”

The tall figure turned, grabbed John by the shoulders and stared intensely into his eyes.

      “Thank you, John.  You have… this has helped.”

John smiled gently and reached up to lightly grasp Sherlock’s arms.

      “You’re welcome.  And I’m here for you, Sherlock.  Whenever you need me, I _will_ be here for you.  Don’t hesitate to ask.”

John wasn’t sure he’d ever been subject to such scrutiny, but whatever Sherlock was looking for he must have found because he nodded once and let his arms drop.

      “Will you check on Mycroft?”

      “Yes, actually.  I’m on my way there now and then I’ll go home for some sleep of my own.  I promise that if there’s anything you should know about I’ll call right away.”

Sherlock nodded again but one more time that vacant, unfocused look filled his eyes and John couldn’t stop himself reaching out and taking his friend’s hand.

      “It’ll be alright, Sherlock.  It may not seem that way now, but it _will_ be alright.”

No, he was not rubbing his thumb against Sherlock’s skin, but if he was, it was only to provide a little of that healing touch he was nattering on about earlier.  Practice what you preach and all that… and it must have been working because Sherlock stood unprotesting for a long moment, then slowly and very sluggishly pulled away his hand and hurried into the building.  Yes, there would be another evening out.  Soon.  Or an evening in.  That could be good, too…


	24. Chapter 24

John was relieved when he saw Mycroft fast asleep and Greg’s face showing something other than despair.

      “How’d it go?”

      “Hmm… oh, hi John.  Not bad, all things considered.  He was a mess at first, and it took a _long_ time, but I think he got the first wash of misery out of him.  He was actually starting to fall asleep on his own when the nurse was finally able to give him that shot you ordered for him.  It was a small win, but I’m claiming it anyway.”

      “You should.  That he’s not catatonic or being fitted for a straightjacket is cause for rejoicing.  I can’t… I just can’t imagine what’s going on in his head right now.  What he’s been through… both then and now… it’s amazing he’s still sentient.  And it’s a miracle he’s actually a functional person, let alone a functional person with that spectacular a talent.”

John glanced at the drawings on the bedside table and marveled again at the sheer artistry and emotion that looked back at him.

      “That’s the truth… though…”

      “What?”

      “Is he really functional?  I mean… you know what I mean.”

      “Yeah, I do and that’s a very good question.  On some levels, yes.  He leads a productive life, demonstrably loves his brother, was capable of forming a mutually-rewarding relationship with you, hasn’t let his art lapse or take any uncomfortable turns… if you didn’t know anything about his past or his alternative methods of paying his bills, I doubt you’d ever even suspect.”

      “I didn’t.  When I first met him, I had no idea about any of that.  I was shocked, really and truly shocked, when he told me about his bit of side work and he _only_ told me because Sherlock forced the issue.”

      “That’s what I mean.  On the surface, if you factor out the poverty, he’s been very functional.”

      “On the surface.”

      “Right.  And scratch below that and you find the cracks.  He sells himself rather than find other employment.  I understand he wants all the time he can for his art, but that’s basically a crap argument.  He could really try and sell his pieces, but doesn’t and I’m sure he has excuses for that, too.  He has a martyr complex that could probably be a published case study and commits both physical and emotional self-harm, even if it’s by proxy.  But he does it directly, too, because letting himself get that thin isn’t completely part of his martyrdom… it’s also pure self-punishment, if I read things right.  And this event that landed him in here… same thing.  Punishment for what he saw as a horrible failure against his brother.”

      “They’re fixable though, right?  He’s not going to suffer from this forever?”

John knew Greg wanted a comforting answer and wished he had a better one to give.

      “To some extent, yes.  What Mycroft’s gone through isn’t something that ever fully leaves you.  That doesn’t mean he can’t get better and lead a happy and fulfilling life, but there will always be shadows in the corners of his mind that are going to come out to play now and then.  Honestly, though, I can’t say for sure how things will go for him.  Some people _don’t_ move on very well and struggle terribly with their experiences for the rest of their lives, but… somehow, I don’t think that’s going to be Mycroft.  His cracks aren’t fractures…”

      “I’d say he’s got plenty of fractures right now, John.”

      “Now, yes, but consider the circumstances.  Sherlock… Sherlock made some very bad decisions and they struck at Mycroft’s weakest points.  And, let’s be honest, each failure, as he perceived it, lessened in his mind his suitability for you, which further added to his turmoil and weakened his defenses.  It was the coming together of some significant and specific circumstances that put him in that bed.  If his brother hadn’t fallen into debt, especially debt due to illegal activities, he could have carried on with his usual level of stability for who knows how long.  Forever, possibly.  Never healthy by anyone’s definition, but functional enough to pass for healthy so long as you didn’t look too closely.”

      “Which I didn’t.”

      “No, you _did_.  You just didn’t understand what you were seeing.  And you were doing the best you could for him, the best _anyone_ could have done… you not only gave him love, you gave him respect.  Showed him you thought he was a worthwhile person, even after you learned what he’d done sometimes to supplement his income.  It doesn’t say bad things about you that your brain didn’t immediately go to the worst possible scenario to explain his troubles; don’t kick yourself for it.”

      “But I see it every day, John!  It’s part of my job!”

      “You job isn’t Mycroft.  You don’t look at him with your work eyes, and you shouldn’t.  With your loved ones, in your own home, you shouldn’t still be on duty.  You did nothing wrong, Greg.  Nothing at all.”

      “Then why does it feel like it?”

John rubbed his neck and wished he didn’t understand what Greg was asking.  He hadn’t known his patient for long and already he felt a cold knot of guilt that he didn’t see the truth until it fell like rotten meat off of Mycroft’s shaking frame.

      “Because you love him and everything bad that happens to him – past, present or future – is going to feel like your fault or something you should have been able to prevent.  Sorry, goes with the territory.”

Lestrade looked over at his sleeping artist and knew John was right.  Down to his marrow he felt a responsibility for this man.  A feverish desire to keep him safe and well and anything that interfered with that duty… it was going to punch him right in the heart.

      “I suppose.  Doesn’t make it any easier, but I think I see what you’re saying.  Thanks, John… now, what’s _your_ report?”

      “Pardon?”

      “Don’t be thick.”

      “Not being thick, just… well, Mycroft’s my patient, so I need to know what’s going on with him.  What’s rattling around in that head of his.  Sherlock, though… he’s my… well, I guess ‘friend’ is a good word for it… and I don’t know what I’m comfortable sharing about a friend.”

Lestrade kept his serious face in place out of respect for the seriousness of the situation, but let his inner grin light up like a lantern.  Maybe no one else would have noticed the slight change on tone on the word ‘friend,’ but he did and was thrilled for it.  How long would it be before a different term might be appropriate?

      “That’s honorable of you, but first off, I worry about the stupid prat and if there’s anything I can do to help him, I want to know.  Second… well, he’s part of Mycroft’s life and I have to keep an eye on all aspects of that right now, don’t I?  Can’t have something blindside me that might hurt him.  I understand you wanting to keep things between the two of you, but we’re all in this together.”

John frowned, but took a chair next to Mycroft’s bed and dropped slowly into it.

      “Well, once he got past the walking catatonia, the guilt started to erupt and it was like Vesuvius spewing lava over Pompeii.  He thinks it’s all his fault, the entire history of Mycroft’s life.  Thinks he could have… should have… done something about it when they were kids.  Later, even.  He’s… he’s not doing well, but at least I left him at your flat calm and communicative.  We actually had a decent evening once the alcohol smoothed away the harsher edges, but it’s only temporary.  Tomorrow will probably be worse since he’s going to have to face his brother.  Sherlock’s likely going to teeter between wanting to say nothing and hope he never has to and wanting to lash out because the anger will be easier to handle than the pain.”

      “If he does, Mycroft won’t fight back, I can tell you that much.  He’ll just lie there and take it.”

      “I know he will.  And that will further feed Sherlock’s guilt, keeping the whole cycle going.  I’m trying to decide if I should be here to referee or just stand back and let them do what they can alone first.”

Lestrade gazed at his lover and wished he had the magic answer to make everything better.  For better or for worse, Sherlock and Mycroft needed to talk and whether that happened now or later, chaperoned or not, it wasn’t going to go well and the thought of the pain it would cause both of them made his own insides ache.  Maybe there was something he could do, though, and it was something that needed doing, no matter what tomorrow brought. 

      “Should I… I can’t easily take time off tomorrow, but do you think it would be a good idea to leave here early and try and catch Sherlock before he leaves the flat?  Maybe have a word with him?  Just… I don’t know; tell him I still support him?  That he doesn’t own what happened to Mycroft when they were kids?  That we’re still going to live in my flat – all three of us – and I’m glad for it?  That I’m proud of him for stepping up when he was needed?  Would any of that be helpful?”

John smiled at his new friend and was, not for the first time, glad that Sherlock and Mycroft had joined forces with someone as strong and decent as the PC.

      “It would, actually.  The more reassurance he gets, the better off he’ll be, even if he doesn’t let it show.  Yeah, I definitely think that might be a good idea.  And I’ll… I’ll see if I can get Sherlock out again tomorrow night, even if it’s just for a coffee.”

      “Good of you.  Really, that’s good of you.”

      “Stop grinning.”

      “Was I grinning?  Oh, must be gas.”

      “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

      “You’re right.  I’m funnier!”

      “Greg…”

      “What?  I didn’t say anything about you wanting to take our Sherlock out for a second date.”

      “You cannot call tonight a date!”

      “There were two people present and alcohol was involved.  That pretty much meets the necessary standard by my way of thinking.”

      “Nope.  You’re absolutely loony.”

      “Only partly.  And the sane part of me is still happy for the two of you.”

      “I’m leaving now and expect that you will be dead and gone by the time I get back tomorrow.”

      “Welcome to the family, John.”

      “Fuck you, Greg.”

      “Sorry, Mycroft’s already got that job.”

__________

Lestrade took the opportunity to catch a few naps while Mycroft was sleeping and woke from his final one to the welcome sound of a pencil moving over paper.

      “Someone’s busy.”

      “Ah, Gregory.  Good morning.  Yes, I felt a small spark of the muse and decided to follow where it led.”

      “Please tell me you weren’t drawing me hunched over in this chair, asleep and drooling?”

      “Not for this particular piece, no.  But, if you look in my hospital collection, you shall perhaps find one or two that meet those criteria.”

      “Beautiful.”

      “I believe so.”

Lestrade made very sure not to look anything but playful and slightly sleepy, but was putting every bit of his police instincts into checking over his partner for signs on his condition, both physical and mental.

      “And I assure you, my dear, I am in better spirits than when we last conversed so you may cease your worrying.”

Well, that went well.

      “That’s something I’m glad to hear.  How about your physical spirits?  Need anything massaged or patted gently?”

      “If you are offering seriously, I do believe my feet are feeling rather… numb.”

      “I’m getting a doctor.”

      “No no no… simply the feeling one gains from a lack of mobility.  I am not suffering blood clots or nerve damage.”

      “Ok.  Yeah, ok.  One foot rub coming up.”

      “I promise you, Gregory, that I shall make mention of any anomalies I perceive in my condition, if you have concerns in that area.”

      “Thanks, but I’ll believe that when I see it.  Now, you tell me if this is too hard.”

Lestrade removed the light socks from Mycroft’s feet and began massaging them firmly, but carefully.

      “That is… that is quite pleasant, actually.”

      “What were you expecting?  You’re in _my_ talented hands, so you know it’s going to be pleasant.”

      “Yes, but… oh my.  That was quite delightful.”

      “See.  How about this?”

His lover’s nearly sexual groan was all the answer Lestrade needed.

      “You are… how are you so skilled at his?”

      “Promise not to tell?”

      “Your secret will be considered sacrosanct.”

      “I used to do this for my Gran.”

      “Hopefully you did not elicit the same response.  Ooohhhhhh…. more in that same manner, please.”

      “No… but I also didn’t really put my special effort into the job.  I save that for only the most deserving.”

      “And we have previously established that she had an unhealthy obsession with milk jugs.”

      “Exactly.  So, I especially didn’t do this.”

Lestrade peeked that there was no one readying to enter the room and leaned over to draw one of Mycroft’s toes in his mouth and suck it gently for a moment, before returning to his massage duties.

      “That…”

      ‘Yes?”

      “Can you do that again?”

      “Certainly.”

But, this time, he’d add a little tongue action to the sucking and indulge himself by watching his artist’s face relax into a look of pure satisfaction.

      “I think we might have found a new nighttime activity.”

      “I believe you are being extremely accurate.  You continually surprise me, Gregory.”

      “Just one more of my many skills.  Now, you want to show me what you’re working on while I make these feet of yours sing like angels?”

Mycroft smirked and turned his paper around to show Lestrade the sketch of John he was creating.

      “I believe I shall gift it to Sherlock when it is completed.”

And… no breakdown.  Not even a twinge when mentioning his brother’s name.  Either Mycroft _was_ feeling better or he was hiding things very well. 

      “Good idea – I think he’ll like it.  John… John stopped by last night and said Sherlock’s doing well, actually.  Or, at least, he talked a little and got home safely.  I’m thinking about leaving here a bit early, if it’s alright with you, and check on Sherlock before he comes here for the day.”

And this time, a little flash of emotion _did_ light up in Mycroft’s eyes, but it wasn’t necessarily bad, it was just… anxious.

      “Then he _shall_ be returning this morning?”

      “That’s still the plan, yes.  If I think he’s not ready, though, I’ll see if I can take the day off and…”

      “Nonsense.  I am entirely capable of managing alone.”

      “Capable, yes, but why do it if you don’t have to?”

      “If the choice is unnecessarily and negatively impacting your career or spending the day alone reading, I believe you can predict which choice I shall make.  Because it is the sensible choice.”

      “Well… maybe _I’m_ not ready.”

      “Gregory…”

Lestrade frowned and concentrated on massaging Mycroft’s feet, not meeting his partner’s eyes.

      “It’s stupid and probably condescending or insulting, but maybe I’m not ready for you to be alone.  I just don’t like the idea of you needing something and there not being anyone here to help.”

      “Besides the legion of medical staff that populate this structure.”

      “You know what I mean.”

And Mycroft did.  He knew exactly what was bothering his lover and his heart beat a little stronger because of it.  His Gregory worried.  He was concerned.  He cared.  If he did not, there would be no objection or thought of neglecting his duties.  He stayed all night through and worked a full day at a demanding job.  All for him.  All for his welfare and comfort.  And that was… reassuring.

      “I do.  And I love you for it.  But may we agree that further compromising your position through excessive time off shall not benefit _anyone_ in the long term?”

      “I know.  And… I know you can manage a day with the medical staff to rely on but… it’s just hard.”

      “You shall do it, however.”

Lestrade sighed and nodded, cutting a look at Mycroft and failing to keep the frown on his face, seeing the beauty of the man in the bed.

      “Yeah, I will.  If Sherlock’s not good to come back today, I’ll call John and let him know you’ll be on your own.”

      “Do not bother the poor man, Gregory.”

      “Sorry, love.  This is something you’ve got to let me have.  And John won’t mind; he knows he’s been drafted for private duty, so he expects things like this.  Now, I just have to work out how to pay him, besides giving him Sherlock’s hand in marriage.”

      “I see no reason not to lay that payment on the proverbial table.”

      “Neither do I, but it’s going to take some time to save up for a nice wedding and I’d hate for the poor thing to have to wait to see some compensation for his hard work.  I think I can get away with free meals and a few pints now and then, so I’m not really worried.”

      “Oh, I do approve.  And it shall provide a wealth of opportunities for social interaction between Sherlock and his doctor to help cement their relationship.”

      “You’re a good mum, Mycroft.  Getting your little boy married off to a doctor.  All the other mums are going to be so jealous.”

      “And a man of character, as well.  I do admire John’s integrity and fortitude.”

      “We’ve got ourselves a winner!  Now, I’ve got a little time before I have to leave; anything specific you need from me?”

      “You intend on stopping your current duties?”

      “Umm… no!  No… you’re getting foot rubs as long as you want them.”

      “Only rubs?”

      “Rubs is a catch-all term.”

      “How delightful.  I do enjoy learning new things.”

__________

It took a very stern glare by Mycroft to send Lestrade away to start his morning and the PC decided that deserved a very unhealthy breakfast from the greasiest food purveyor he knew, one portion packed to take to Sherlock, and coffee so strong it could shine tree bark.  Actually, Lestrade was surprised Sherlock was awake when he arrived, but awake he was and a quick peek showed he had made a bed of the sofa.

      “See, not too bad, is it?”

Sherlock followed Lestrade’s eyes and rolled his own as a reply, as he confiscated the gift of food and began to eat.

      “I have slept on laboratory tables that were more accommodating.”

      “Well, if you find one cheap, we can bring it in.  Anything for you, beautiful.”

Sherlock’s rude noise was somewhat lacking in interest owing to the amount of food currently crammed into his mouth.  Which actually reminded Lestrade of something he’d wanted to ask and, handily, it would open the door to the conversation he needed to have with the boy sitting across the kitchen table from him.

      “How’s the food?”

      “Passable.”

      “Better than sickening, so I’ll assume you like it.  I did want to ask though… how’s Mycroft eating?  He’s getting his meals during your shift and I haven’t had a chance to see if he’s eating well.”

It hurt Lestrade to see Sherlock flinch at the mention of his brother, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected.

      “He… sometimes he eats.”

      “Only sometimes?”

Sherlock sat silently for longer than made Lestrade happy, but he waited patiently for the boy to pull himself together to answer.

      “Only sometimes.  I… I had not… I did not know how to…”

      “Make him?”

      “Yes.  He picks at his food and says he has no appetite.  It is then passed to me to finish and he becomes upset if I do not oblige.”

Wonderful.  The last thing Mycroft should be doing was leaving behind good food when he was nothing but bone, but… he wasn’t well and wouldn’t be for a long time and nothing should surprise him at this point.  That didn’t mean he’d be allowed to continue.

      “That’s ok, because now that I know, I’ll take up that duty.  It’s not easy, I’m sure, to give an older brother orders and have them taken seriously, so that’ll be my concern from now on.  And if you notice anything, even if you’re not sure it’s important, mention it to John or me.  You know him better than we do and there’s a good chance you’ll see something before we take notice.”

Sherlock pecked at his food a few more moments then laid down his fork and ran his hands through his hair.

      “ _I_?  I do not know him at all.  I see nothing and what little I believe I observe, I misinterpret.  I am not the one on whom to lay your hopes for news on Mycroft’s progress.”

Lestrade set aside his intense worry about Mycroft’s behavior and focused on the person he could help right now.

      “You are exactly the one to lay my hopes on, Sherlock.  I’m not going to pretend to know what you’re thinking, what’s going on in your head, but I can guess and I’m going to tell you that any fault you’re feeling isn’t yours to own.  Yes, you could have been less of a bastard to him, in general, but little brothers often _are_ bastards, so it’s not especially unusual.  But, you had _no_ way to know why he was the way he was and you don’t get any blame for that.  Either for what happened or because you didn’t figure things out later.  If you were to blame, I’d tell you.”

      “You would?”

      “Yeah, I would.  I love him, Sherlock and I would not spare your feelings for one minute if I thought you’d let him down.  I would tear into you for not helping him, for letting him suffer and when I say tear into you, I mean beat you until you’d become part of the floor.  Then, I’d toss your arse out of here and give you another beating to make it very clear you were never welcome in this flat or anywhere near your brother again.  But I’m not, because you didn’t fail him.  You couldn’t have.  I would love someone to blame right now, Sherlock, I really, really would, but there isn’t anyone alive who deserves it.  I know how much you hurt for him, lad, when we found him in that fucking cellar.  I know how much you hurt for him now.  I know you’d change everything for him if you could.  I would, too, but neither of us has that power.”

Sherlock wasn’t quite looking at Lestrade, but the PC could tell he was listening to every word.  Hopefully, some of it was sinking in.

      “Right now, we both feel guilty, Sherlock.  We feel like we could have seen something, had some flash of understanding, but that’s not the way it works.  It was only luck, of the worst sort, that pushed everything out in the open and… it’s a good thing.  In the very long term, this miserable time _will_ turn out to be a good thing.  We _know_ now and can help Mycroft heal.  If we’d never learned his secrets he would have kept on limping through life, hurting and carrying that hurt alone.  Don’t feel guilty about what you couldn’t have changed, but do what you can now to make things better for him, even if it’s just letting go of your guilt so he doesn’t use that to fuel his own.  As guilty as you might feel, he’s feeling it a hundred times worse and that doesn’t need to grow.”

A small cut of Sherlock’s eyes towards Lestrade gave the older man a flush of relief that he was making _some_ headway.

      “John said listening would be helpful.”

      “And John’s right.  Just being someone Mycroft can talk to is going to be very helpful to him.  The sorts of things he needs to talk about… you can only say that to people you trust and that doesn’t leave him with many options.”

      “I do not know if he will confide in me.  He will assume I would think ill of him.”

      “He already does, though I told him he was loony.  But here’s a place you can make a difference.  Tell him what you really feel about him, even if it’s not entirely pleasant.  He appreciates honesty and I know you don’t hate him, Sherlock.  You may not know what exactly you feel, but it’s not hate.  Be honest with him and encourage him to be honest with you, in return.  And just be there for him.  Be there and listen to him, talk to him… let him know you’re someone he can count on and you _want_ to be someone he can count on.  That you think he’s worth that.  He needs to know you think he’s worth your time and effort.  Think you can do all of that?  It’s ok if you’re not ready, if you need more time to…”

      “What Mycroft needs he will receive from me.”

The answer came a little too fast for Lestrade’s liking, but it would do for now.  Sherlock would try, at least, but the PC knew there would be a lot of little talks like this to help Sherlock manage something that was going to be extremely hard for him.  But that was ok… Sherlock’s own needs were _not_ going to get lost in the shuffle.

      “Good.  Really, that’s good to hear.  It’s what I expected you to say, actually, because you’ve shown that you’ll step up for your brother when he needs you and I know I can count on you to do what’s right for him.  So… are you going to stay with him today?”

      “Of course.”

That was _one_ worry off Lestrade’s his mind.

      “He’ll be happy for it.  He asked if you were going to take over from me, so he’s hopeful you’ll going to visit.  But, if it gets too hard for you… if you start to talk about things that are hard for you to hear or discuss right now, tell Mycroft that’s the case and ask to talk about it later.  Not never… not forget about it… but maybe after you’ve had a little time to work through the topic on your own.  He’ll understand, Sherlock, and you know he only wants the best for you.”

      “He will get what he needs from me.”

Ok… that was about as grimly enunciated a statement as they come, but it was the best Lestrade knew he’d likely get at this point.  He’d given Sherlock the out, told him it was alright to put on the brakes if he was about to crack and could only have faith that the boy would do take that out before he suffered too greatly.  Which, they both knew, would wound Mycroft, too.

      “I know he will, Sherlock.  I absolutely know that.  Well, I’m going to get dressed, so you finish eating and… go whenever you’re ready to go.  If I’m going to be late, I’ll try and get a message to you.”

Sherlock shrugged and went back to his breakfast, not responding to the pat on his shoulder he received as Lestrade left the room.  They were so foolish, John and Lestrade… he was not the one to deserve their worry, it should be reserved in full for his brother, but… but it was not entirely unpleasant that they refused to do so.

__________

Sherlock made a point of being out of the flat before Lestrade completed his shower because he had no desire to sit through another of the PC’s little chats, but took a lackadaisical approach to getting started with his Mycroft-minding duties.  He had filled his pockets with various of Mycroft’s art supplies before leaving the flat and spent a significant amount of time adding other objects that his brother might find interesting to sketch to his pockets as he meandered through the streets.  By the time he took a deep, steadying breath and strode into his brother’s hospital room, he cut a very bottom-heavy figure.

      “Mycroft.”

Sherlock both liked and disliked the look in his brother’s eyes and it did not improve his ideas on how to approach the day.  There was happiness, mixed equally with distress so the net sum of the two was zero.  Utterly useless.

      “Sherlock.  I… it is good to see you, brother.”

      “Of course it is.   I am a very gladdening person.”

Mycroft barked a short burst of laughter as much at the utter deadpan delivery as the words themselves and the ratio of emotions in his heart tilted slightly away from the distress side of the scale.

      “And I am blessed for it.  Now, do have a seat, you seem to be porting quite a cargo.”

Sherlock sat heavily in one of the chairs and crossed his legs, not removing any materials from his pockets.

      “Would you care to divest yourself…”

      “Lestrade and John believe that it will be beneficial to you that I make it clear I am available to you, at any time, to serve as a listener for your troubles.  This serves as notice of my intent to do that.”

 Mycroft blinked and then blinked again, completely taken off guard, yet finding his mind reaching out for that offer, snatching it from the air and curling gently around it like a cat around a warm patch of sunshine.

      “I… thank you, Sherlock.  That means a great deal to me.”

More than his little brother would ever know, especially since Mycroft could read from Sherlock’s expression that he was not making the offer lightly or under duress from the other members of their little tribe.  His brother wanted to help and that was… that was worth more than a vault of gold.

      “Good.  For I wish to begin now.”

Perhaps ‘good’ was not really the appropriate term.

      “I appreciate your offer, Sherlock.  I _greatly_ appreciate your kindness, but perhaps another time…”

      “No.  I have come to learn your nearly endless capacity for duplicity in terms of your thinking and welfare and if words are not shared at this point, you will take that as the concrete slab to lay over the crypt of your problems, never again letting them see the light of day.  I shall not permit that, so… speak.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft who didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, yell or hide.  Sherlock certainly intended to press this discussion and… it was not a discussion he wanted.  Yet greatly wanted.  Yet feared.  But hoped for.  Perhaps it was a situation of striking while the iron was hot, no matter how fiercely he was burned in the process.

      “Very well, but… I truly do not know what to say.”

      “Why did you not tell me of your abuse sooner?”

Ah, so Sherlock was not taking the gradual approach to assuming his self-appointed duties.

      “First, I did not and… and do not… view it as abuse.  It was a bargain.  A negotiated thing into which I entered with full awareness and consent.  For those reasons alone, I would be loath to disclose my shame.”

      “You are an idiot.”

      “One of the more flattering terms you have used to describe me.”

      “It is the one best suited for the situation.”

      “Then I am an idiot.  It is not something I shall argue.”

      “Shall you argue anything I would say?  If I said you were disgraceful, filthy, sinful, worthless… would you argue?”

      “Not if I felt properly described.”

      “And do you?”

Mycroft looked away from his brother and Sherlock snarled at the unmistakable message.

      “You are an idiot.”

      “My, we have become recursive.”

      “As are you.  I have little doubt Lestrade stated clearly in his poorly-educated and overly-emotive fashion that none of those descriptors were accurate, yet you cling to them, nonetheless.”

      “If someone states clearly that you are a man of cheerful disposition, would you lay your belief in that statement, knowing well it was not the truth?”

      “If I had evidence that my ability to reason was compromised, I would at least consider the opinion.”

      “Not true, as you are keenly aware.  I have yet to meet another individual so doggedly committed to holding fast to his own perceptions and opinions, entirely excluding from consideration all external sources of evidence.”

      “ _That_ is not true.  If I am presented with a convincing case, I would certainly amend my beliefs… that situation has simply yet to occur.”

      “My case is made.”

      “No, for I am not you.  And… I _have_ seen my thinking colored of late from evidentiary assaults by certain parties.  Miniscule and weak those assaults might be.”

Mycroft didn’t need to ask who those certain parties might be; regardless, the admission was a significant one from his brother.  And Mycroft was absolutely delighted by it.  Such positive changes in his brother… changes he had wondered if he would _ever_ witness…

      “I am glad for it, Sherlock.  It is easy to become tunnel-visioned without the challenge of fresh ideas to reflect upon.”

      “So why are you refusing to do so.”

      “I did not make that confession.”

      “A verbal assertion was not required.  However, let us return to my original question.  Why did you not inform me of your… history?”

Mycroft heaved as deep a sigh as his ribs would allow and finally turned his eyes back to his brother.

      “I did not want you to suffer.  Not for _any_ reason, be it humiliation because you shared my blood or misplaced guilt that you played some role in my downfall.”

      “I played the starring role in your so-called downfall, so kindly allow me to take credit where credit is due.”

      “You had _no_ role, for you made no choices and took no actions to promote any behavior on my part.”

      “ _I_ was the object of Father’s perversion, not you.”

      “Yes, something of which I am painfully aware.”

There was both a deep pain and a sharp anger to Mycroft’s voice that put Sherlock on high alert.  Fortunately, even _he_ was not so unaware of human nature that he could not decipher the puzzle.

      “It bothers you that he did not desire you.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous.”

      “It does.  On some level, you are upset that he did not find you worth violating without you begging that he do so.”

Mycroft’s hissed ‘that is enough’ was vicious and the furious shine in his eyes was something Sherlock had never seen.  It was almost enough to make him back down.  But not quite.

      “That is a feature of your pain, is it not?  That a part of you was jealous of me?  That it gave you some measure of satisfaction to have what was destined to be mine?  To get your revenge on Father and me for slighting you?  To…”

Sherlock’s next word died an early death as he found himself on the floor with Mycroft’s fists pounding any bit of his body he was stupid enough to leave exposed.  If the nursing staff hadn’t heard the crash of the chair, the student felt certain it would have been quite awhile before his brother’s rage abated enough to halt the beating.  And the injection they gave Mycroft ensured another round of fisticuffs would not transpire for quite some time.  That was a doubly-blessed outcome, because it might take him a bit of effort to find John.


	25. Chapter 25

      “Oh god…”

John looked at the clock and promised himself that whoever was banging on his door would die a horrible and miserable death.  As soon as he found some clothes.

      “Shut it!  Give me a minute.”

      “John!”

Sherlock?

      “John!  Stop pretending that you cannot hear me!”

Pretend?  Wish, was more like it.

      “I said shut it!  Give me a minute and do NOT keep disturbing my neighbors!  Stupid twat!”

      “Hurry!  It is important!  It is about Mycroft!”

That got John out of the bed and barely into his pants before he was pouncing on the door to his flat and throwing it open.

      “Oh.”

John followed Sherlock’s eyes up and down his mostly-naked body and waved him in so the entire building didn’t catch a glimpse of his attributes.

      “It seems rather cold to be sleeping unclothed, John.”

      “Please stop noticing that.”

      “Perhaps you should rectify the situation so I am not forced to.”

      “Ok… probably a good idea.”

John backed into his bedroom because he was suddenly feeling rather bum conscious, though, he was also feeling penis conscious so it was a little slice of hell getting safely out of Sherlock’s sight.

      “Your bedroom is appalling.”

And _back_ into Sherlock’s sight as the student apparently didn’t think following him was in any way strange.

      “Thank you for that.”

      “Lestrade’s sofa is more comfortable that your bed.”

Which Sherlock was now sitting on, bouncing for dramatic effect.

      “Yes, well, it came with the flat.”

      “You are sleeping in someone else’s bed?  Appalling.  They could have been diseased.”

      “You’re sleeping on Greg’s sofa where he has surely released several cargo ships’ worth of gas.  Doubly appalling.”

      “That was entirely uncalled-for.  I am now afraid to sleep.”

      “Just lay down a sheet.  And… there.   Fully dressed.”

      “Yellow is an atrocious color on you.”

      “I’m glad my life doesn’t depend on kindness from you or they’d be shoveling dirt on my coffin by nightfall.”

It was just a joke, but John quickly saw Sherlock didn’t see it that way.  The darkness that rose in his eyes brought the doctor immediately back to the reason for Sherlock’s visit and he took a seat on the bed next to his new friend to get that conversation started.

      “Sherlock… what happened to Mycroft?”

Sherlock suddenly seemed to John like a distressed child and… well, he had already held the man’s hand once hadn’t he?  And Sherlock’s hands were still cold from the chill outside, they could use a good warming.

      “I… I upset him.”

      “Well, that’s not entirely unexpected.  You had to know today would be a difficult one.”

Sherlock used his free hand to grasp the bottom of his shirt and lift it to expose the bruises that were beginning to form.

      “God, Sherlock… are you alright?”

      “I am better than he.  The nurse I spoke to… she was very concerned about his condition after… after they pulled him off the floor.  Off of me.”

      “Crap… hold on.”

John flipped around and reached across the bed to the telephone on his nightstand and dialed the hospital.  Sherlock pointedly paid scrupulous attention to the details of John’s room to block out the sound of the discussion, though it ultimately made no difference as John shared the information as soon as he finished his call.

      “Ok, Sherlock… look, I don’t want you to worry but they had to put a chest tube in your brother.  Those damned ribs of his did some more damage to his lung.  It’ll be alright, though.  He’s getting extra oxygen so he _will_ be alright.  Also… well, let’s just say between his last outburst and this one, he’s taken some extra punishment.  It _will_ ok, though, you need to understand that.  Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

John watched his friend carefully as he broke the news and wished for a terrible moment that Sherlock didn’t care for his brother so he didn’t have to suffer the pain that was so clearly visible on his face.

      “I must return.”

      “No, _we’ll_ go back.  And talk on the way.”

John hopped to his feet and added a jacket to his ensemble before motioning Sherlock off the bed to follow him.  And motioned him again.  And a third time.  And then retook his seat next to the student, who seemed somehow welded to the mattress.

      “It’s ok if we wait a few minutes before we leave.  Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Sherlock first shook his head ‘no,’ then changed it to a nod ‘yes.’

      “I am not certain I can provide Mycroft with the care and support he will require during his recuperation.”

      “Why don’t you tell me what led you to that conclusion and I’ll tell you what I think about it?”

      “You already know how little regard I have given him, is anything further required?”

      “What happened, Sherlock?”

The student struggled a moment then forced out an answer.

      “We were having a conversation that took a… an unfortunate turn.”

      “Ok, that’s going to happen, so I’m not surprised.  Now that his walls are crumbling and his emotions are a bloody typhoon of ugliness, there’s going to be a lot he’ll react to that he might not have before.  And you know things now that you want to explore and those areas are going to be very hard for him to face.  _None_ of that is a surprise, Sherlock.  It’s part of the healing process.”

      “I believe that I said something he perceived as intentionally hurtful.”

      “Oh… well, yeah, that’s not surprising either.  He’s not going to be interpreting comments and actions quite the way he might normally right now and will look for reasons to lash out.  It’s a way of letting some of the bile out that… well, that makes him feel less weak or responsible.  I know that’s hard to swallow when it happens, especially if he gets physical, but it’s important that you talk to him about it and tell him you understand why he did what he did.  It’s not ok that he attacked you, though, and we’ll have to work on that.”

      “I would have.”

      “You would have what?”

      “I believe I would have attacked a person who intimated that I took satisfaction from being defiled.”

      “Ouch.  But that’s not really what you meant, right?”

Sherlock’s tortured confusion hit John hard and he would not comment, even internally, that he moved closer to Sherlock in a silent show of support.

      “To some extent, yes.”

      “Can you… can you explain that?”

The student ran his hands through his hair then dropped back to lie on the mattress and stare upwards at the ceiling.

      “My comment was based on his own words when he initially disclosed his disgrace.”

      “Disgrace isn’t the right word, Sherlock.”

Something Sherlock realized only after it slipped out of his mouth, and his brain was beginning to hurt from all the mental kicks it was receiving.

      “No… no it is not.  But that is how he views the situation and in that light was I using the term.  Though it did not present that way in conversation.”

John patted his friend’s leg and began to realize just what Sherlock meant about not being a good source of aide for his brother.  He cared and he _did_ try… but his communication skills could use a little work.  Ok, more than a little work…

      “Tell me what you said to him.”

      “I took the evidence and came to the conclusion that part of his distress was that he carried a deep-seated mote of… satisfaction, sense of victory… that the fate destined for me, as it had been for other children, had been given to him.  I declared what I felt was a clear sense of jealousy and envy on his part and it highly enraged him.”

John took a deep breath and dropped down on the mattress next to Sherlock, mimicking the detective’s ceiling-staring position.

      “Because he said that he hadn’t been wanted and wasn’t considered attractive enough for your father to choose for his abuse.”

      “In retrospect, it is easy to understand his mindset as he was not given any appreciable attention by Father.  Or Mummy, for that matter.  He was not a social child, he pursued only his art as a hobby, was not athletic, had a portly figure and a somewhat dour personality… he was essentially left alone by our parents, though I felt… I genuinely believed it was what he greatly preferred.”

      “No child wants to be ignored, Sherlock.  They want to be loved and shown attention… affection… by their parents and when they don’t get it… well, the result is a messed-up adult.  Did you?  Get their affection, I mean?”

      “Affection is not the word I would use but… I did perhaps have a greater number of positive encounters with them.  I was often asked to play my violin at dinner parties, for instance, though at that age, my technique was not what I consider concert quality.  When we were out, I was always introduced to those we met, with Mycroft added almost as an afterthought.  Though I had very little interest in the status of my clothing, Mummy was very attentive to my presentation.  She was less so for Mycroft who… I heard her once comment that he did not do proper justice to the quality of garments he was provided.”

      “And they didn’t like his art.”

      “They disliked his obsession with art; I am not certain they had an opinion on the quality of his work.”

John sighed and spared a thought for poor young Mycroft suffering the all-too-common fate of the child who doesn’t match their parents’ expectations and is reminded of it constantly.     And add in a sibling who was paraded about like a show dog…

      “Then… you’re probably right.  There’s a tiny and intensely shameful part of him that was happy that he was the focus of your father’s attention, even for something unspeakable.  Some kids act out and take terrible beatings for the same reason.”

      “And that would add to his overall sense of guilt and low esteem, would it not?  It is… it is what I told him.”

      “It would.  No, you were on target with that and it definitely would be a very hard thing for him to hear.  Especially if it wasn’t broached in the gentlest of ways.”

      “Which it was not.  I do not know how to… be gentle.”

      “Do you want to learn?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, who turned to stare back at him.

      “I do not know if I can.”

      “Fair enough.  Do you want to try?”

      “Yes, if it will help Mycroft.”

      “Then we’ll see what we can do to help you learn to soften the blow when you have something difficult or troubling to say.”

John gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile to Sherlock and pushed back the thought of how purely beautiful the student was when he was open and unguarded.

      “Now, if you’d like I can go and check on Mycroft alone and…”

      “No.  I told Lestrade that I would spend the day with my brother and that is what I shall do.”

      “Ok, but you _will_ need to talk to him about this and if you’re there today… then you need to do it today.”

      “Should I… apologize?”

      “No, not for what you said, because he knows it’s the truth.  But you _can_ apologize for the way you brought up the whole thing.  He’ll appreciate that, knowing you thought about it and realize it could have been handled differently.”

      “Very well.  We may leave now.”

John rolled onto his back and laughed.  Learning to soften the blow… might not be the easiest lesson to teach…

__________

      “John…”

The unmistakable heartbreak in Sherlock’s voice had John immediately and instinctively running a hand up and down his friend’s back and cutting himself to mental ribbons for not even thinking about this.

      “It’s ok, Sherlock.  The restraints are for his safety.  Mycroft’s had two fairly violent outbursts and they just wanted to make sure he couldn’t hurt himself if he woke up and no one was here to talk to him.”

The doctor walked to the bed and began unfastening the straps holding Mycroft’s arms to the bedrails.

      “See?  I’m taking them off and it’s likely he was already unconscious before they put them on so he won’t know they were ever here.’

      “They will _never_ do that to my brother again.”

The very dark anger in Sherlock’s voice gave John an unpleasant feeling in his stomach and decided that leaving Mycroft unattended for a day might not be as harmless a thing as he had previously thought. 

      “It was a safety precaution, Sherlock, not a punitive measure.  Believe me, they were trying to keep him from hurting himself.  But here we go… gone.”

John even went so far as to throw them out into the hallway and made a mental note to apologize to the floor staff for cluttering the corridor.

      “You might as well have a seat.  He could be out for awhile.  Or… I’m going to check him over if you want to go and get coffee.”

      “No.”

There was no arguing with the finality of Sherlock’s tone.

      “Ok.  I’ll only be a minute.”

If John had hoped to discretely examine his patient, he was sadly disappointed as Sherlock hovered over his shoulder the entire time, going to far as to expose more of his brother’s broken form for inspection.

      “I haven’t seen the X-rays yet, but I imagine the tube will come out soon and… if we can keep him from having any more eruptions, the rest is going to heal well enough.  But… oh, he did give his knee a good knock, didn’t he?”

Sherlock scowled at his brother’s very inflamed joint and continued to scowl as he dropped into a chair.

      “It’s still not something that won’t heal, Sherlock.  And don’t blame yourself for any of it.  He’s going to have irrational moments and it’s not the fault of the person who sparked them.  And we’re going to work on it, ok?  It _is_ going to be alright.”

Sherlock wished more than anything he could be reassured by John’s words but right now… seeing Mycroft so fractured and _small_ , it was a very difficult thing to do.

      “What do we do now?”

      “Wait.  I can go and check what they gave him to rest and take a look at his chart while I’m at it.  You ok to sit here for a minute?  I won’t take long.”

Sherlock nodded slightly and John darted out to find out exactly how badly his patient had damaged himself.  For his part, Sherlock found all he could do was stare at his brother.  He could not even successfully process the images and impressions he was receiving,  but knew that he did shoulder the blame for this round of injury.  Why did he have to press?  He’d suspected he was right and why couldn’t that be enough?  Why did he have to drive forward for the confirmation from Mycroft’s lips?  Did he need so badly to _know_?  Was it worth the cost?  John would help him with this.  He had said as much and John was not a man given to deceit or broken promises.  John would help him, at least, more successfully interact with Mycroft so something like this didn’t happen again.  His own bruises were inconsequential but his brother… he could not withstand another altercation.  He could _not_ … there was not enough of him left to survive…

      “Sherlock?  Here, take this.”

How John could have found coffee in the three seconds he was gone, Sherlock had no idea.

      “I spoke to a few people and looked at his chart and you don’t need to be worried.  At least not about any severe damage.  He set himself back a little, but no permanent problems.  And when his blood gases improve a bit, we can discontinue the oxygen.”

      “How long?”

      “For what?”

      “Until he can leave here?”

Because that was suddenly very, very important to the younger Holmes.  His brother needed to leave this chamber of horrors.  He needed to be… he needed to be home.  His _new_ home and, more than ever, the move to Lestrade’s flat seemed like a blessing.  Mycroft needed a location that was safe and comfortable and where no one would tie him down for being disruptive and where he could set up his easel and paint.  His brother _needed_ to paint and he would ensure that Mycroft had all the paints and canvases and whatever else he needed to work.  His brother needed to be home working on his art, not here.  He needed to go _home_ and as soon as possible.

      “A few days, maybe.  We’ll have to see how he progresses and I still want him to talk to a few people…”

      “Can he do that once he has been discharged?”

      “Well, yes, but…”

      “Then remove that from the timeframe.  I want Mycroft released as soon as it is physically feasible.”

      “Sherlock… I am promising you that, right now, this is the best place for him.”

      “They do not care for him here.”

      “I disagree.”

      “Very well… they care as ardently as for any tramp brought in from the street.”

      “Again, disagree.  Or agree… look, the people here are good people and they do their very best for their patients.  No matter whom that patient might be.”

      “He cannot paint.”

      “He can draw.  And he’s been doing a lot of it.”

      “It is not the same.”

      “I’m not going to tell the hospital to release Mycroft because it’s inconvenient here for his painting.”

      “I am not asking for that, simply… do not confine him longer than is absolutely necessary and discussions with superfluous personnel will not encourage that.”

      “Someone to talk to him about his diet and start laying the groundwork for his long-term mental health is _not_ superfluous.”

      “It is, if it can be accomplished once he has been discharged.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten, twice, before continuing on with the argument.

      “Right now, Mycroft isn’t going anywhere, so it’s not an issue and… I’ll get people in to talk to him soon.  I understand you want him home, Sherlock, but I’m not going to allow it until I am absolutely sure it’s the right decision.  I promise, though, that he won’t be here any longer than necessary.”

      “I will speak to Lestrade on the issue.”

Oh good, attacked on two fronts.  However, Greg might be on his side for this one.  Or not.  Who knew with the rocky seas they were experiencing, but it didn’t matter now, anyway, because that was a chat for another day.  A day that was several days away, at least.

      “We’ll both speak to him.  And to Mycroft.  I won’t leave any of you out of the decision-making process.”

      “Good because I now know where you live and that you sleep in a very vulnerable condition.”

      “Nice.  Looks like it’s time for our first lesson in nice.”

      “I did not request _nice_ lessons.”

      “Consider it a bonus.”

__________

Lestrade had to admit it was a nice ego boost that as he strode through the corridor to Mycroft’s room, more than one member of the staff did a double take to check him out.  One mental pat on the back for looking snappy in his uniform later, he was peeking in his artist’s room and grinning widely that John was sitting with Sherlock, chatting with him as Mycroft slept.  Though the nasal canula his artist was sporting was a new and worrying addition.

      “You two having fun?”

The looks that he received put the PC on alert, because John shot him what he recognized as his professional face and Sherlock looked…  Sherlock looked ready to attack.

      “I guess not.”

      “Greg?  What are you doing here?”

      “Wow, feeling very loved, I must say.  I’m on my meal break and I was nearby, so I thought I’d stop in and see how things were going.”

John looked over to Sherlock who hesitated a long while before nodding.

      “Not so well, actually.”

Lestrade covered the distance between the door and Mycroft’s bed in under a heartbeat’s worth of time and stood with his hands shaking from wanting to touch the sleeping form, but not knowing if it was safe to do so.

      “What happened?  And why is he getting oxygen?”

      “Mycroft and I did not have a successful conversation.”

Sherlock felt Lestrade’s eyes on him, but chose not to meet them.

      “How not successful?”

One lifted shirt showed the PC just how unproductive Sherlock and Mycroft’s discussion had been.

      “Christ, Sherlock… Mycroft did that?”

      “It was not unwarranted.  I… I made statements that caused him extreme upset and he acted upon it.  In truth, I do not think he was fully in control of himself at the time.”

      “Sherlock’s right, Greg.  I doubt Mycroft had any conscious control over his actions and… well, Sherlock wasn’t the only one to suffer.”

John rose and drew aside Mycroft’s blankets and gown to show Lestrade the newest additions to Mycroft’s catalog of pains.

      “What… how… what in the fuck happened!”

Over the next several minutes, Sherlock, with help from John, told his tale and Lestrade needed every bit of his self-control to keep from hitting something, anything, in the room.

      “It was bound to happen, Greg.  If not for this reason, then for something else.  And it will probably happen a few more times along the way.  It’s not Sherlock’s fault he lit the fuse to a powder keg.”

      “I never said it was his fault.  I’m _not_ saying at all it’s your fault, Sherlock.  I’m just… why did this have to happen?  Can someone tell me how he can be having a good morning, a really good morning, and then it all falls apart in the blink of an eye?  He… how bad is his condition, John.  And do _not_ lie to me.”

      “He’ll be fine, Greg.  I promise he’ll be fine.  He’ll take a little longer to heal because of the new issues, but not that much longer.  And… it’s good that he got more of his pain out into the open.  As bad as this was, as much as it hurt, it was more inside him that needed to get dragged into the light so he has to face it and work his way through it.”

Lestrade felt his legs getting weak and grabbed John’s vacated seat to steady himself.  His poor artist… he did not need something else exposed right now.  Hadn’t there been enough for the moment?  Couldn’t he have _some_ time to work through what he’d already revealed without adding more?  How was he supposed to take any more of this?  Mycroft was already drowning in his memories and emotions and now more water was being added to the pool?  How was he supposed to swim to the surface if the surface kept getting farther and farther away?

      “And we must take him from this dungeon as soon as possible.  They _shackled_ him…”

That did take Lestrade’s legs out from under him and it was John’s quick action that got him into the chair without becoming the third bruised person in the room.

      “Not shackled, you prat.  Greg, listen to me.  Sherlock came to find me after his battle with Mycroft and, with no one here to keep an eye that he didn’t have another outburst and harm himself, they restrained his arms.  That’s all and I pulled them off as soon as we got here.”

The restrained his lover.  They tied his artist down like some lunatic in an asylum.

      “Greg, you’ve got to calm down.  Unclench your… everything… and just calm down.  It was done for his own good, to keep him safe, and he won’t have any idea it ever happened.  Honestly, it wasn’t an uncaring decision or a negligent or vindictive one.  I know these people, Greg… that’s not who they are.  Trust me, ok?”

Trust was not really something Lestrade was easily mustering up right now, with the picture of his lover chained to his bed ricocheting around his head, but this was John and John… John had proved he’d do his best for Mycroft.

      “Fine.  But no one touches him like that again.”

      “I can’t promise that.”

      “Then we take him out of here.”

      “That’s not happening either.”

      “No choice - pick one.”

      “No, because neither is reasonable.  I _can_ promise you that no one will do anything to him that is not completely and immediately necessary.  No one like’s restraining a patient, Greg.  It doesn’t make you feel good doing that to a person, but if the choice is that or they hurt themselves or someone else, you don’t have an option.”

      “I have also secured John’s assurance that the minute Mycroft’s physical injuries are at a point where he can manage without continuous hospital care, he will be sent home.”

      “NO!  Sherlock, that is not what I said.  I said we’d talk about it.  If he’s discharged before he’s ready, Mycroft is just going to end up back here for another stay because he’s caused himself more damage or exhausted himself to the point his health is in imminent danger.”

Lestrade failed to follow the rest of the argument because he had no focus anymore to spare for anything but Mycroft.  His poor, shattered lover who he wanted to pick up in his arms and run away with.  Take him somewhere far from here where nothing could ever touch him again and no one could ever make his demons come out of hiding to sink their teeth into his heart and mind.  But he didn’t blame Sherlock, well… not much.  Stupid kid had no sense of tact or how his words sounded to the people who heard them.  And everything he said, unfortunately, made sense and was perfect to upend a crate of shit and shame on Mycroft’s head and send him spiraling down into his personal hell.  His dear, special artist… when was he ever going to see the sunshine again?

      “Greg?  Earth to Greg… ok, you’re back.  Does that sound alright?  Sherlock and I take a walk for more coffee?  I know you don’t have long, but…”

      “No, it’s ok.  I have time.  You two go ahead and I’ll… I’ll keep an eye on things.”

John almost had to hoist Sherlock out of his chair to get him moving, but once on his feet, Sherlock strode quickly out of the room and John dashed after him, leaving Lestrade alone.  Which was very acceptable to him, since all he really wanted to do was to be with his artist and, even as he slept, let him know that he was loved so deeply it was almost embarrassing.  But, with the slight flutter of Mycroft’s eyes, the PC knew he wouldn’t have to proclaim his sentiments to his lover’s slumbering form.

      “Mycroft?  There’s my artist.  Don’t move around, ok?  Got a length of pipe sticking shoved into you and that probably shouldn’t get jostled around too much.”

      “What?  Gregory?  What time… how long did I…”

Lestrade shushed Mycroft gently, then stood up and moved his chair closer to the bed, taking his partner’s hand between his own.

      “It’s not that late, love.  I’m just on my break and decided to stop by and see how things were going.  I hear… well, they didn’t go so well, did they?”

Mycroft’s eyes lost the little bit of light they’d held and Lestrade raised his lover’s hand to give it a soft kiss.

      “You have spoken with Sherlock.”

      “He’s here with John, actually.  They just stepped out for a quick coffee.  And yes, I got the story.”

      “I am… I am so ashamed of myself.”

      “Don’t be, Mycroft.  Not one bit.  John said that wasn’t something you could control.  It’s like stepping on a landmine, it just goes off and nothing you do is going to stop it.  And it’s not surprising your mine went off… it cut too close, didn’t it.  What Sherlock said.”

Lestrade watched Mycroft struggle with the flood of emotions that rose up and simply waited patiently, stroking Mycroft’s hand and then his lovely hair, until the struggle seemed to turn in his lover’s favor.

      “It did.  It is not an easy thing to admit, but yes…”

      “And it’s completely understandable, Mycroft.  John said so and I think the same way.  It’s… it’s the way kids think, isn’t it?  That’s just what they do and it may feel horrible to think about it, but it makes sense and that’s not something to feel bad about now.  But I know you _will_ and that’s understandable, too.  Luckily, that’s what I’m here for… to take all those bad feelings away for a moment.”

This time it was Mycroft’s lips that Lestrade kissed and he let it linger until he felt his artist relax under his touch and begin to kiss him back.

      “Anytime you need one, love, you just let me know and I’ll give you all the kisses you want.”

      “I am overcome by the abundance of wealth.”

      “You should be!  Unlimited kisses from this handsome gent... oh wait… I’m confusing me with you.  _I’m_ the wealthy one since I get all the loving I want from the most handsome man in history.”

Mycroft’s smile wasn’t large or particularly strong, but it was there and that more than Lestrade had dared to hope he’d achieve.

      “You are a flatterer, Gregory Lestrade.”

      “Nope, just an honest man.”

      “I believe that is a very unlikely statement.”

Sherlock’s voice had a noticeable impact on Mycroft, but Lestrade carefully stroked his cheek until his partner was composed enough to speak.

      “Then you are mistaken, Sherlock, for Gregory is a man of unimpeachable integrity.”

The slight levity in Mycroft’s tone was completely torn down by the almost-frightened look in his eye as his brother walked closer to the bed.

      “I am mistaken about much, it seems.  The manner in which I conducted myself during our earlier conversation was unhelpful.  The specifics of our discussion are not in question, but the way in which I pursued the topic was improper and for that I apologize.”

Lestrade wondered if he was going to have to start pounding on Mycroft’s chest to get him breathing again, but remembered the chest tube and hoped to hell he didn’t have to start blowing in the damn thing to keep his lover’s lungs inflated.  John seemed to be worrying about something similar with Sherlock and looked ready to begin CPR.

      “I… thank you, Sherlock.  And have my apology, as well.  I did not mean to behave so outrageously and I know I must have caused you some injury.  You did not deserve my actions for you…”

Mycroft paused for a long minute and Lestrade squeeze his hand tightly to give what strength he could.

      “… you spoke no untruth.  I would rejoice in chastising you for speaking lies, but I cannot.  We may speak further on this matter, if and when you choose, and I will answer your questions as best as I am able.”

Sherlock nodded and looked to John who smiled and handed him his coffee.  Mycroft looked at Lestrade, who smiled and kissed him on the forehead.  Then gave him another to start his goodbyes.

      “Well, on that happy note, I need to get back to work.  Only a few hours, love, and I’ll be back.  You going to be ok?

      “I shall, my dear.  I am in very capable hands.”

      “Well, you’re in hands, at least.  I’m not sure these babies are capable of much besides napping.  And, leave room for a snack, because I’m going to sneak in some of our favorite Chinese for us to have a little treat.”

And to start on his mission to get some food into his lover’s system.

      “Gregory, that is not necessary…”

      “That’s enough of that Mr. Holmes.  You’re getting a tasty Chinese dinner with someone who would happily use that delicious belly of yours as a plate if John would let me and that’s the end of the story.”

Sherlock’s very convincing gagging brought a real smile to Mycroft’s face and earned him a final kiss before Lestrade rose from his chair and stretched away the stress that had tightened, nearly knotted, his muscles.

      “Sherlock, John… I’ll see you later.  Mycroft… I love you and I’ll see you soon.”

One final kiss and a whispered ‘I love you dearly, my beloved Gregory.  Thank you for today.’ and Lestrade was walking out of the room, purposefully not looking back or he might not be able to actually leave his artist’s side.

      “Are you awake for the day?”

Mycroft turned his head towards his brother and repositioned slightly, though the motion was not at all comfortable.

      “I believe I am.”

      “Good, then you can take possession of this.”

Sherlock began to pull out cargo he’d been carting in his pockets since the morning and laying it on the bed tray he motioned John to erect.

      “I brought you additional supplies for your work and… you often draw and paint items of interest you find during your day.  I collected some for you that you may use for your compositions.”

Mycroft stared at the assortment of intriguing rocks, small bottles, a discarded or lost toy car, a scrap of metal and other random objects that immediately piqued his interest as his mind began to arrange and rearrange them in groups for possible sketches.  And Sherlock had brought _his_ pencils and charcoal.

      “This is extremely considerate of you, Sherlock.  I believe I feel my inspiration coming valiantly to the charge.”

      “Just so long as you take it easy, Mycroft.  And you _will_ let me know if those painkillers aren’t doing their job.”

      “Of course, John.  Now, how do you and Sherlock plan on occupying your time?”

John grinned and reached into his pocket for a deck of cards.

      “Don’t worry, I’ve got some ideas.”

      “Excellent. Do try and win enough to fund a nice dinner for the both of you.  I shall gladly cover Sherlock’s losses, if need be.”

      “I have no intention of losing to John.”

      “Intentions are one thing, brother dear, results are another.”

      “Shut up and begin scribbling.”

And, to Sherlock’s surprise, Mycroft complied.  They would talk later, and many more laters after, but for today, a bit of peace and quiet was very welcome.  And, for his brother’s information, he already intended to fund John’s dinner.  It was only proper since they had moving to finish tonight…


	26. Chapter 26

John wondered if he’d ever be able to pinpoint the moment he became so much a part of this situation that he would sit all day with Sherlock, periodically taking him for walks to burn off some of his friend’s combination of nervous and frustrated energy.  Actually, he doubted he would and honestly had to say he really didn’t care.  It had been a very long time since he’d felt a part of something, felt he had in his life people who were more than acquaintances, and that feeling was a very good one.

A side benefit was that he got to observe his patient outside his role as doctor, at least from Mycroft’s perspective.  From where he sat, his doctor’s hat was firmly on his head and he was using the time to gather as much information on Mycroft as he could.  First, he learned his patient had no difficulty saying nothing for a very long time.  He didn’t feel the need to fill any silence with words and that made John unsettlingly suspicious that the brothers didn’t spend a great deal of time in conversation.  While no one needed to run their mouths nonstop, this was another piece of the puzzle of Sherlock and Mycroft’s interactions that was going to be important as they moved forward.  Second, he discovered his patient was very good at hiding physical pain.  If he hadn’t been paying close attention, John would easily have missed the tiny signs that Mycroft was hurting and badly.  On one of his and Sherlock’s promenades, he’d had a word with the nurse and ordered Mycroft a boost of his pain medication.  Apparently, his patient couldn’t be trusted to be completely honest about his condition and that was a very good thing to know.

Third, he recognized that Greg was right...  Mycroft _lived_ his art.  Maybe that was part of the reason he hadn’t complained about the pain – he might not have actually felt it some of the time.  John learned he could tell when Mycroft lost himself in his work and really wasn’t _here_ for a period of time and, in that world, there wasn’t room for anything but his art.  But it wasn’t perfect.  His patient been drawing all day and what he produced made John’s eyes bug out of his head in amazement, but now and then there would be a flash of frustration in Mycroft’s eyes.  A twitch of the hand as if he was going to reach for something, then remembered it wasn’t there.  Sherlock said Mycroft needed to paint and John was beginning to suspect that his patient was greatly missing that form of his art.  Knowing the paintings now hanging on Lestrade’s walls and the sheer amount of Mycroft’s soul that had gone into them, the doctor was starting to consider that the shortest possible hospital stay might be to Mycroft’s advantage.

      “Ugh… so returns the reason the streets of London are quickly devolving into anarchy.”

John looked up and laughed at Lestrade’s answer which was offered in sign language.

      “As long as you’re here, Sherlock, I think the anarchy level stays pretty stable.  Now, how’s my artist doing?

Lestrade walked over to the bed and gave Mycroft a kiss on his forehead before pulling up a chair, setting down the delicious-smelling bags he was carrying and picking up the sketches his lover had been working on that afternoon.

      “You’ve been busy.  God, I’ll never get over how talented you are.  I’m going to get an album or something and put all of these in there.”

      “Gregory… those are silly things…”

      “Fine, then you won’t mind if I steal them and put them in an album.  One day you’ll understand, love, that I am in awe of your talent.  Right now, I get to come home and see your paintings on the walls and I stand there and stare at them because they drag me in and don’t let go.  You’re a marvel, Mycroft, and I’m not ashamed to say it.  Or steal your drawings.”

Which Lestrade did very theatrically, making a show of flipping through them, cutting eyes back and forth and shoving them into the drawer of the nightstand, whistling innocently when he was done.  John watched the exchange closely and was happy that the amusement and adoration on Mycroft’s face appeared completely truthful.  If his patient was clinging tightly to his relationship, that was one less bit of worry.  Too many people in his situation distanced themselves from their loved ones, which was miserably unhelpful as it lessened their base of support.  For now, at least, Mycroft was holding strong to his partner and that was a very, very big relief.

      “You flatter me, Gregory, but today I have not the energy to argue your viewpoint.”

      “Good.  And get used to it, because that viewpoint’s not changing.  So, what are you two up to this evening?  Anything you can’t share with us old codgers?”

Sherlock’s look of confusion and John’s ‘I’m going to kill you’ face pleased Lestrade to no end.

      “We are completing the moving process and I am recompensing John for his efforts with food.”

Not that they had discussed that per se, but John thought that sounded like a fine way to spend the evening.  His days off were usually packed with errands, catching up on paperwork, guarding his food and beer from his flatmate and his flatmate’s friends, so this was a very welcome change of pace.  Especially if drinks were involved.  Drinks that led to a little more handholding, perhaps.

      “Good, then we don’t have to share our lovely feast.  Be off with you, then.”

Lestrade waved at the door and picked up the take-away bags to start setting up his and Mycroft’s dinner.  While he did that, he and John shared a moment or two of conversation comprising only facial tics, blinks and coughs that let Lestrade know that Mycroft’s day had been a good one, barring the morning’s nightmare, and let John know that any change in that condition would be duly reported when next they spoke.

      “As far as I understand it, this is not yet a police state, Lestrade.”

      “Oh, come on, Sherlock.  If I remember right, we’ve got a good bit to do and I _am_ going to hold you to buying dinner.  Big man do hard work need food.”

      “Are you describing yourself?  I would argue the term big, if that is the case.”

      “Maybe I’m only talking about a part of me.”

Sherlock’s new confused look set Lestrade laughing and Mycroft chuckling softly, reminding John to alert the staff to keep a close eye on his pain level.

      “And on that note, you and Sherlock will now leave so we don’t have to suffer any further mental damage.”

John and Lestrade shared a goodbye wave that had Mycroft tutting and Sherlock rolling his eyes, before the younger pair started to leave the room, an action interrupted by Lestrade motioning Sherlock over for a quick whisper in his ear before letting him go.

      “Gregory?  May I inquire as to the nature of your surreptitious conversation?”

      “Hm?  Oh… just gave Sherlock the name of a very good, _very_ cheap place for Italian and told him that if they shag in our bed, he had better remember to change the sheets or we _will_ be having words.”

This time Mycroft couldn’t hold back the laughter and it took Lestrade holding him still for him to have a good giggle without wanting to grimace at the same time.

      “How badly does it hurt, love?”

      “It is manageable, Gregory.  One should not expect a completely pain-free recuperation.”

      “True, but not too much pain, ok?  You don’t need to suffer, Mycroft.  You’re going to get enough of that when we’re home and you have to live on my cooking.”

Lestrade opened the cartons of food and waved each one under Mycroft’s nose.  Feeing very proud he’d stopped and gotten some cheap plastic plates on the way to pick up their dinner, the PC plated Mycroft a nice assortment of the offerings, making sure not to serve too much or too little, then filled up his own plate and began to dig in.

      “So, how’d the afternoon go?  Must have been a misery playing chaperone to those two lovebirds.” 

      “Not at all; they kept their erotic posturing and suggestive vernacular to a most tolerable level.”

      “Let me guess… John tossed out lines and Sherlock would fail to bite because he had no idea they _were_ lines or was completely unsure how to latch onto the wriggling worm.”

      “You are not incorrect on both accounts.  Sherlock’s level of experience in romantic matters is strikingly similar to his level of experience with food service employment.  He has shown no appreciable interest in pursuing any form of relationship, collegial or romantic, and has had no reason to notice, let alone internalize, any of the signals and conventions associated with communication along those lines.”

      “So John’s a chicken doing a mating dance for a duck.”

      “In essence, yes.  That being said, I do not believe John’s efforts are entirely wasted.  Though Sherlock is unaware of the specific nature of what is being offered him, he does recognize that _something_ is being offered and is highly intrigued by the fact.  That he took pains to enhance his appearance for their first assignation speaks volumes on the subject of his willingness to, at the very least, investigate matters further.”

Lestrade watched Mycroft fail to take a bite of his food during their conversation and finally put a little rice and vegetables on his own fork to hold in front of his artist’s mouth.  First bad sign, his partner looking almost frightened by the action.  Second bad sign, his partner then looking a little repulsed, as if the thought of eating was upsetting him.  Third bad sign, when he did take a bite, he left half the food on the fork and then smiled at Lestrade as if this was a job well done.

      “Finish that up, Mycroft.”

      “Small bites, my dear.  Far better for the digestion.”

      “Ok, so now take another small bite and eat the rest.”

Lestrade endured Mycroft’s rolled eyes before he cleaned the fork.

      “There.  It is quite delightful.”

But, apparently, not quite delightful enough to do more than peck at the rice and a few more vegetables.  Lestrade cut a third off an eggroll and set it on Mycroft’s plate and wasn’t terribly surprised that his partner ignored it.  The next step was to lift it up and motion for Mycroft to take a bite.

      “Oh Gregory, that is entirely too heavy.”

      “No, it’s perfect because it tastes great and makes you happy when you eat it.  I love your eggroll smile; I remember it fondly.”

      “Another day, perhaps.  I am already feeling quite full…”

Lestrade set the eggroll down on his plate and put the plate on the cabinet by the bed.

      “Mycroft… how much did you have to eat today?  No, make that yesterday, because today’s had too much disruption to be considered normal.”

      “Hmmm… in sum, I would say quite a bit.”

      “I didn’t ask how much they brought you, or how much Sherlock ate; I asked how much _you_ ate.”

Mycroft’s soft, placid smile vanished and Lestrade hated himself for it, but this was something they needed to talk about and now was as good a time as any.

      “I do not appreciate the insinuation.”

      “No, I’m sure you don’t and I’m not trying to make you angry or feel bad.  I know you’re not really eating, Mycroft, and I want to help you with that.  Biology wasn’t my best subject in school, but I do understand the basic relationship between food, energy and health and right now you need a lot of the last two, so you need _lots_ of the first.  The food here isn’t the best and I’ll be happy to sneak in whatever you’d like when I get here and pop out to get you breakfast before I leave.  I’ll do whatever it takes to get you something you like and want to eat, I just ask that you actually eat some of it.”

      “I am consuming quite sufficient a quantity of food, Gregory.”

      “No, you’re not.  You’ve actually lost some weight, Mycroft, and I wouldn’t worry if it was me or Sherlock, but you don’t have any spare weight to lose.”

      “If you are unhappy with my appearance, then…”

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh.

      “You know that’s not what I’m saying.  You _know_ , but you’re trying to divert my attention or pick a fight or something to get me off track.  I love you, Mycroft, and you know I wouldn’t bring this up for a stupid reason like you were getting a bit thin for my taste.  Which you’re not, before you even try and leap on that and keep me sidetracked.  You know why I’d ask, why I’d worry… can we talk about it?  I’m not mad or upset or disappointed, but I’d like to talk about this if you’ll allow it.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, so the PC decided to take that as permission.

      “I know you put yourself second to Sherlock, love, and you’ve always made sure he was well-fed and clothed before you even thought about yourself, and maybe a part of you still is stuck in that habit, but I think it’s something else, too.  I think there’s more to it and I want to do what I can to turn you around before you’re really hurting yourself.  Can you talk to me, Mycroft?  I’m not going to make you do anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.  I’m not going to force you to eat anything you don’t want to, but… I just want to talk, that’s all.”

Mycroft glared at his partner, but saw nothing in Lestrade’s face that indicated he was anything but truthful.  And worried.  Had there been any hint of judgment in his lover’s eyes, Mycroft could have hid behind anger, but that was not an option.  His Gregory never judged; he loved, he worried and he cared, but he _never_ judged.

      “I will comply as best I can.”

Such a hopeful and brilliant smile.  The very last thing Mycroft wanted to do was talk about himself, but it didn’t seem as upsetting when it gave his Gregory such honest joy.

      “Great.  Really, that’s wonderful.  I’m not trying to be hurtful; I just want you to be well.  Can you… I know you’ve not been eating a lot, Mycroft.  Sherlock told me and, yes, he’s worried about it, too.  Can you tell me why?”

      “I am simply not hungry.”

      “Ok… that makes some sense, could definitely be part of it.  I don’t feel that hungry when I’m sick sometimes, and when you’re in pain, the appetites not the best, but there’s a limit.  And even if you’re not hungry, you know you have to eat to keep up your strength.  Build it up, really.  You know that, love, so I have to wonder why you’re not doing it.”

Mycroft didn’t meet his eyes, so Lestrade knew he wasn’t completely off his head things.  His poor artist… so many cold and malicious hands reaching up from the darkness to try and drag him under…

      “I don’t know.”

      “But you knew something was wrong.”

      “No… not as such.  I… of late, I simply do not often wish to eat.”

      “Even if you’re hungry.”

It took Mycroft a moment, but Lestrade waited patiently until his lover quietly said ‘yes.’

      “Ok… good.  Do you know… are you sure there isn’t there a reason?  You know you can always tell me anything.”

Mycroft shook his head and the PC lightly ran a hand back and forth across Mycroft’s shoulder.

      “You just don’t want to.”

      “As you say.”

      “I understand.  That’s the way it is sometimes… you just feel something, but can’t explain why.”

But maybe whoever John got to counsel Mycroft would be able to figure out why.  Right now, though, Lestrade didn’t really care why Mycroft wasn’t eating, he simply wanted get his lover _to_ eat.

      “But you do have to get something in you, Mycroft, that’s the truth and you know it.  My guess is that John’s not really picked up on how little you’re eating because Sherlock’s been cleaning your tray, but he’ll figure it out soon enough and then he could keep you here longer or hook you up to one of those bags of nutrients and who wants a needle in their arm for breakfast?”

Mycroft shrugged his shoulders and Lestrade let the shoulder rubbing trail down his artist’s arm and, finally, linked their fingers together and gave Mycroft another big smile.

      “And we’re going to start tonight.  Nothing big, in fact…”

With his free hand, Lestrade picked up a piece of chicken from Mycroft’s plate and held it aloft.

      “… we can even have some fun with our dinner.  Open wide.”

Mycroft still felt a sharp and shameful urge not to eat what Lestrade was offering, but shoved it down by staring into his lover’s exquisite eyes and taking from them the strength he needed to open his mouth and let the large fingers press in the chicken and linger a moment so he could clean them of the flavorful sauce.

      “There… how’s that?”

The artist had to admit that it was the most pleasant bite of food he’d consumed since he arrived.

      “Yes!  That’s almost your eggroll smile.”

Lestrade retrieved his own plate and set it down on Mycroft’s bed tray.

      “Your turn.”

This time Mycroft did chuckle as Lestrade opened his mouth like a baby bird and rewarded his very large chick with a juicy piece of pork.  _His_ reward was having his own fingers cleaned by Lestrade’s extremely nimble tongue.

      “Now, that makes this stuff better than the finest food on the planet.  Think you can finish what’s on your plate?  I tried not to put too much on it, so it’s really just a little bit…”

He didn’t want it, but Mycroft would eat it.  Gregory would be upset if he didn’t.  And his love was correct… he did not want to give John any reason to extend his stay.  When he was home… a word that soothed some of the ever-present anxiety he had been experiencing… he was certain this little aberration of behavior would no longer be a problem.  Regardless, it was minor thing, certainly not worth his Gregory’s concern…

      “You served a very appropriate portion and I shall endeavor to consume the entirety of it.  Of course, I shall require your assistance.”

This time, it was Mycroft who opened his mouth like a chick in a nest and Lestrade giggled like a kid, popping a fat broccoli floret right on his lover’s tongue.  Mycroft was holding something back, not giving him the full story, but that was ok.  His artist was eating and that was all that mattered.  And breakfast would be something sinfully rich; he could run out and get them a couple of fat pastries with lots of cream and chocolate.  Right now he didn’t care about vitamins and all that nutrition business… getting some weight on his man’s frame was the important thing and if it took spending a little extra for some good fattening foods to go into Mycroft’s stomach, that was alright with him.  However, _he_ was going to have to start jogging soon to keep that pastry weight at bay…

__________

      “We shall dine first, then complete the relocation of Mycroft and my belongings.”

      “Yes sir, generalissimo.  Do you want me to salute or will a nod suffice?”

      “This is you being amusing, correct?”

      “This is me trying to be amusing, but it’s been a long day.  I might be off my game.”

Sherlock looked down at the man walking beside him and said nothing.  It occurred to him that John had stayed with him all day when it was not necessary.  John could have left the hospital after verifying Mycroft’s condition, returned to his flat and done whatever it was John did when he was not working.  Yet he stayed.  It was a very curious thing…

      “Lestrade informed me of an Italian establishment that he favors.  Will that be satisfactory?”

      “Italian?  Love it.”

      “Very well.  It is a moderate walk so we should make haste.”

      “Fine with me.  A little exercise never hurt anyone.”

      “I abhor it.  It is an utter waste of time.”  

      “No, it isn’t.  The health benefits are well documented.  And your brother is going to need to start doing a little himself to build up muscle.”

      “The likelihood of you convincing Mycroft to exercise is on par with convincing him to take employment as a swineherd.”

      “Can any of you make this easy on me?”

      “I do not believe that appears in any clause of your employment agreement.”

      “We don’t have an employment agreement, you prat.”

      “Your negligence of basic negotiation principles should not be our problem.”

      “For that, I’m ordering wine.”

      “If this eatery is as inexpensive as Lestrade indicates, you shall likely be served a glass of vinegar, but do feel free.”

      “Well, if it is, you owe me a pint.”

      “There is no logic to that.”

      “So?”

      “Monosyllabism does not increase the logic of your assertion.”

      “I waste less breath, though.”

      “True, and that also benefits me, so there is _some_ merit to it, I suppose.”

      “Glad to be of help.”

__________

Sherlock watched the doctor eat and felt oddly proud that John was enjoying himself.  He, himself, found little to enjoy in the eating process, it filled a need and nothing more, but John seemed to value the experience of a meal and this experience was a pleasant one for him.  That was… good.  He found he took his own pleasure seeing John happily eating and that was a circumstance he had never before encountered.  And, it was simply pleasurable to share a table with someone who… took pleasure sharing a table with him.  John was _happy_ to be here and that was still something he could not fully comprehend, but found himself accepting even without the understanding.  Again, not a circumstance he was used to encountering.

      “This is great!  I have to give it to Greg, he knows his cheap eats.  This is another place I’ll be adding to my list.  And I want to go back for Chinese soon.  That take-away he had smelled so good…”

      “He is trying to entice Mycroft into eating and, likely, hopeful that both the flavor and the memory of sharing a meal at that location will accomplish the task.”

John stopped chewing, swallowed sharply, slowly set down his fork and stared across at Sherlock, who quickly began to realize he’d let loose a bit of sensitive information.

      “Ok, now that seems like something I need to hear a little more about, Sherlock, so why don’t you go ahead and get started.”

And from his tone, Sherlock was very sure John wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

      “I informed Lestrade that Mycroft has been failing to eat.”

      “I check his food intake, Sherlock.  It’s been fine.”

      “You check what is reported based on the status of his meal tray.   You have no way of knowing what has contributed to that status.”

      “Plain English, please.”

      “Mycroft has not been eating a great deal of his food.  He passes it to me to finish and… I did so to prevent his upset.”

      “Mycroft’s not been eating.”

      “Some, but not the quantity he is provided.”

Sherlock watched John’s face contort through a variety of emotions and his hands play with his utensils, clenched in such a way that the student put it at nearly 50% that the doctor would begin stabbing something.  It was Sherlock’s fervent hope that he would not be the target.

      “He’s not eating.  He is _not_ eating.  Brilliant.  Just bloody brilliant.”

      “I do not think it has significantly impacted him at this point and Lestrade has stated he is going to manage the situation.”

      “Any reason I’m just hearing about this now?”

      “In truth, no.  With other matters more pressing, it simply slipped my mind.”

John sighed and had to admit that wasn’t a bad reason.

      “I should, however, have mentioned it sooner.  I should have but… I did not.”

      “Were you trying to keep Mycroft out of trouble?”

Sherlock honestly was not certain.  He had never held that mindset before and it didn’t seem to fit this situation, but perhaps that was a part of it.  Trying to protect someone who had already endured so much and would suffer if he felt he had disappointed again.  Or the issue was something else entirely… he simply did not know.

      “I cannot say that with surety.  It simply felt… wrong… to mention it at this time.”

      “Ok… I’ll take that for now, but Sherlock, you have to promise me that, even if it feels wrong or makes you uncomfortable, you have to share information about Mycroft’s health with me.  His physical _or_ mental health and this is about both.  I’m glad you told Greg, though and yes, their dinner tonight is a good idea.  I’ll have a little chat with Greg, myself, too, and see what his take on this is.  Maybe he’ll get Mycroft to open up a little and that would be _very_ good.  I’m not back at work until tomorrow night, but I’m going to schedule a few appointments for your brother to try get on top of this, and make a start with his other issues.”

And that would happen tomorrow, if possible.  John felt particularly stupid that he’d missed Mycroft’s eating issues, even though it wasn’t exactly his fault.  New rule for dealing with his patient – assume every possible thing that can happen _will_ happen and just assume the worst when any problem raises its ugly head.

      “If you think it will help.  I am not convinced that Mycroft shall be willing to talk to any mental health professional.”

      “Maybe not.  Not everyone responds to therapy, but I’m going to give your brother every chance, get him access to every possible resource and we’ll see what works and what doesn’t.  Every person is different, which is one of the reasons I enjoy what I do.  It’s a challenge, lots of puzzles to solve and solving those puzzles means good things for someone.”

      “There is snot.  Apply tissue.  I fail to see the tremendous challenge in that.”

      “Don’t forget the other glamorous thrills like testicular torsion and hemorrhoids.”

      “I am forgetting them immediately.  In fact, I shall deny I ever had knowledge of those concepts.”

      “Lucky thing one of us has fortitude.  How’s your research going, by the way?  I guess you haven’t had much time to work on it lately.”

      “Not as such, but the setback is not a crippling one.  Once Mycroft is relocated to Lestrade’s flat, I anticipate being able to reestablish my previous rate of progress.”

      “And you mostly like to work at night, right?”

      “It is my preferred time, yes.”

      “Good.”

Sherlock cocked his head, but John just smiled and put a forkful of pasta into his mouth.  Working nights was devastating for a man’s social life, unless, of course, you knew others who worked that shift, too.

__________

Sherlock decided that Lestrade was to blame for the fact that, though he and Mycroft had very little, it still took two additional trips to bring their possessions to their new home.  Since Lestrade was not here to protest, no particular reason was required for assigning the man the blame.  Actually, the fault fell on Mycroft for his ridiculous art supplies and canvases, which did not fit easily into a cab.  Then, it was disassembling the bed and table to store in the attic of their old flat, though Sherlock agreed that John could have use of their tiny refrigerator so he could store his most precious food items in his bedroom, away from thieving hands.  That required a trip to John’s flat to deposit his new provisions vault and Sherlock realized two important things.  Firstly, cabs were a very quick way to deplete one’s cash supply and secondly, John’s flatmate was a cretin, both items having John’s wholehearted approval.

With the final delivery to Lestrade’s flat, Sherlock and John spent some time inventorying the current contents of the space and making a list of items that would need to be added so that three people could sanely live in the small flat, such as more towels, dishes, glasses and bedding because, as Sherlock reminded John, Mycroft and Lestrade were extremely libidinous.

      “When Lestrade earns his next wage packet, he may take care of this.”

      “Sherlock, I know a few members of the force because of my work and, while they make a decent wage, it’s still a wage and not a king’s ransom.  Try not to bankrupt Greg within a week of moving in, ok?”

Sherlock bit his lip and rescinded the pithy reply he had staged on his tongue.  He had not forgotten that Lestrade paid the remainder of his debt and had stated he would assist with any fine he was facing from his court appearance.  Which was approaching soon.  _And_ he was helping save his violin…

      “I will not.”

      “Good.  So… is that it?”

The cues from John’s voice and expression confused Sherlock slightly, because they were not as happy or relieved as one should exhibit after completing a tedious task, but, strangely, they matched his own sense of discontent that the evening’s activities were concluded.

      “All of our possessions are here.”

      “Oh.  Well, ok.  I guess that _is_ it, then.”

Normally, having people leave and leave him alone was a high point to his day, but Sherlock found the thought unpleasant when the person involved was John.

      “If you wish, you may remain here and… there is a television and Lestrade has alcohol.”

That was the most awkwardly-stated invitation John had ever received, but it was also one he wasn’t going to turn down.

      “Sounds good to me.  I could use putting my feet up for awhile after all that heavy lifting.  Let’s check out the liquor supply.”

Sherlock felt both surprised and smug that John accepted his offer.  He’d never actually issued a social invitation before, but, apparently, he’d done a stellar job of it.  And a quick survey of the contents of Lestrade’s kitchen produced a suitable selection of alcohol, which John poured into two glasses for them to carry to the sofa.  A quick flick through the channels won John a movie he’d seen before and hadn’t minded and since Sherlock didn’t care, he left things there, mostly for background noise.

      “Well, the sofa’s comfortable, so you should be getting a good night’s sleep.”

      “It suffices.  In truth, it offers a more agreeable rest than our bed.”

      “See, things are looking up already.  And the scotch is acceptable, too.  I know it’s not the ideal situation, Sherlock, but I think you’ll be comfortable here.  Greg and Mycroft aren’t bad sorts, either, so they shouldn’t be terrible flatmates.”

      “Mycroft is an incessant mother hen, however, he is content to remain silent between his bouts of clucking.  Lestrade is more intrusive with his behaviors; however, he is sufficiently foolish that my mind automatically blocks him from my conscious attention.”

      “Lovely.  And you’re the perfect flatmate, right?”

      “Of course.  I do not fill the space with the malodorous aroma of paints and solvents, I do not pollute the environment with ridiculous jests and barely literate English.  At worst, I might be accused, and _am_ often, by Mycroft, of being slightly untidy, but that is a simple matter for Mycroft and Lestrade to correct.”

      “So they get the privilege of cleaning up after you, as well as basking in the glory of your otherwise perfect flatmatedness?”

      “Yes.”

      “This is going to be a very happy household.”

      “I am hopeful that it will be.”

John caught the slight tone in Sherlock’s voice that screamed the student was actually being very serious about that hope.

      “It is going to be good here, Sherlock.  Greg and Mycroft care a lot about you and each other.  Yeah, it’ll get a little crowded at times and tempers are going to be short now and then, but nothing different than you’d expect for any group of people living together.  But, I guess it will take some getting used to; it’s just been you and Mycroft for a long time.”

      “A very long time.”

John studied his friend and caught the smallest glimpse of wistfulness in Sherlock’s expression.  It was only there a second, but it was definitely there.

      “Does it bother you that Greg’s in the mix now?”

Sherlock shot John a contemptuous look, but the doctor was learning to see beneath the student’s façade.

      “I’d be surprised if you weren’t, actually.  Or maybe bothered isn’t the right word.  Unsure?  Waiting to see how you’re going to fit in and what role you’re going to play?  Mycroft’s got someone besides you else on his priority list now and you don’t know how those priorities are going to be divided.  That’s normal, you know.  Nothing to feel bad about.”

      “It’s not?  I mean… I have no idea what you are talking about.”

It struck John again how little Sherlock seemed to know about human interactions, even at an academic level.  It was… ok, using the word ‘cute’ was just wrong, but since nobody had to know, he was going to think it anyway.

      “Oh, well, ok.  Forget I said anything.  But, if you ever want to stretch your legs, get out of here and gripe about things, just give me a call.  That’s normal, too.  Share your complaints over a fresh pint with a friendly ear.  I actually think it’s written into every man’s DNA.”

      “Your grasp of genetics is appalling.  Did you win your medical license in some form of gambling venture?”

      “I wish I had!  Would have saved me a lot of effort.”

      “And not lessened your skill level.”

      “Oh, that’s nice.  No fresh pint and friendly ear for you.”

      “Industrial-grade scotch and a petulant ear?”

      “Yeah, ok.  That’s sounds fair.”

It was a tiny smile on Sherlock’s face, but John took it as a victory.  Sherlock’s own emotional state was turbulent, though he was keeping a lot of it bottled up, and any little reassurance that he had some support was a good thing.  From Doctor Watson’s point of view.  From John’s point of view, making Sherlock smile for any reason was something to enjoy…

      “Did you choose this particular abomination of cinema for a reason or do you simply enjoy subjecting me to aesthetic torture?”

Still enjoying…

__________

      “He is unutterably stupid.”

John had to admit that Sherlock’s proclamations were difficult to decipher at the best of times, but after two glasses of Greg’s libations, it was even tougher going.

      “Who?”

      “That man.  In your film.  Why does he fail to simply announce his intentions and cease the ridiculous attempts to attract the attention of his desired female?”

      “Do you always talk like you’re narrating a documentary?  A scornful documentary, I admit, but there’d be tortoises or something in there somewhere.”

      “Are you intoxicated?”

      “Not much, actually.  Just in that cozy stage where you’re relaxed and everything seems lovely.  And to answer your question, Mr. Attenborough, he’s just taking his time.  Doesn’t want to show his hand too soon.  Nothing worse than making your move and getting slapped down for it, so he’s trying to make sure when he _does_ make his move he’ll get a positive response.  At least he’s not using the yawn and arm maneuver.”

      “You are failing to convince me that you are not intoxicated.”

      “You don’t know the arm and yawn maneuver?”

      “Is that the same as the yawn and arm maneuver you mentioned before?”

      “Bastard.  And yes.  Ok, it’s like this.  You’re not sure if your companion is ready for a cuddle, but you want one, so you decide to test the waters a bit.  Here, I’ll show you.”

John set down his drink and moved closer to Sherlock on the sofa.

      “Ok, we’re seeing a film or on a sofa watching the telly or anything where we’re sitting close together.  Now, you want to see if I fancy you, so you’ve already been giving me little touches that could easily be interpreted as completely innocent, but if the person fancies you, then it’s a bit of a warm-up.”

      “Touches?”

      “You laugh at something and pat the other person’s knee, you lay a hand on their arm to get their attention… if they aren’t interested, they won’t touch you back, but if they do a little of that themselves or, at least, smile at you when you give them a touch, then you move on to step two.”

      “Your military maneuver?”  

      “Only you would consider flirting and romance a military action.  Anyway, what you do is this - give a big yawn, or it can just be a good stretch and… go ahead, give a big yawn and stretch.”

Sherlock looked quizzically at John, but complied in the interests of science.

      “Good, now you’d drop your arm along the back of the sofa, if you’re still not sure where this is going, or around your date’s shoulders if you’re feeling confident.  If they’re not interested they can excuse themselves to the loo or something and you watch the rest of whatever you’re watching as friends.”

Sherlock listened to John and settled his arm along the back of the sofa, which surprised the doctor, who thought Sherlock would… well, not do _that_.  But, he didn’t get to be a good doctor by refusing to take chances…

      “Now, if they let you keep your arm where it is, then you have a choice.  You can say that’s enough for one night and just leave your arm where it is and decide to maybe try a shoulder drape next time you ask them out.  Or, if that little success bolsters your confidence, you could wait a bit, then do a small readjustment wriggle and let your arm fall across their shoulders.”

Which Sherlock did, rather stiffly, as if he was going through the motions of some form of new exercise move.

      “And is that all?”

      “Well, it _can_ be.  And that’s actually a good point to leave things at, if you like to move slowly.  If not, you go for the oops whisper.”

      “I am utterly disgusted to have to ask, but I find myself compelled to do so.”

      “Alright, you’ve got the shoulder part down and now, not right away, mind you, but after a bit so you don’t look desperate, you wait until they’re distracted by something they’re watching and you get very close and whisper something right into their ear.  Use a lot of breath, too, so it’s really startling.  When they turn to see what…”

      “Like this?”

John’s head whipped round after being surprised by the hot, breathy voice in his ear and found himself staring into the beautiful eyes he’d never admit to dreaming about at night.

      “Y…yeah.  Then you find yourself gazing into their eyes and your lips are right near theirs and it’s ‘oops, sorry about that,’ not that you say it out loud or anything, you just…

John just couldn’t unlock his eyes from Sherlock’s and sensed his skin getting hot, his clothes starting to feel tight but all of that faded into the background when he leaned in and kissed his friend’s perfect lips, savoring the taste, which put all of the other lips he’d sampled to shame.   Sherlock’s skin was soft, but his lips were firm and warm and when John reached up to run a hand down Sherlock’s graceful neck he smiled at the tremor he felt running through the student’s body.  A body that suddenly lurched back as if it had been bitten.

      “Sherlock?”

      “I… I have to leave.”

      “You live here.”

      “Oh… then I…”

It was nearly painful seeing the distress in Sherlock’s eyes and John couldn’t think of anything to do but remove the source of that distress.

      “Sherlock, it’s ok… I’ll go.  I’m sorry, I really am.  I thought… no, it doesn’t matter what I thought.  I’ll go.”

John got up and tried to walk with some dignity to the door and not make a running escape, so he could be forgiven for not noticing that Sherlock had followed him until he tried to open the flat door and found an arm reaching over his head was keeping it closed.  He turned and faced the taller man, staring again into those incredible eyes, which came closer as Sherlock was the one this time to lean in and take a quick and slightly off-center kiss, before opening the door and pushing John through it, closing the door firmly behind him.

Staring at the outside of the door to Lestrade’s flat, John wavered between disappointment and elation and decided he needed a little help making the decision…

__________

      “John!  What are you doing here?”

John noted two things quickly.  The takeaway bags were balled up in the rubbish bin, so he could hope that his patient had enjoyed some measure of a meal tonight and second, his patient looked calm and relaxed, so the pain meds were doing their work.  Both, he felt, were very good omens.

      “Oh, just checking in.  I was on my way home and thought I’d see how things were since I’m not back on duty until tomorrow night… oh, I mean tonight.  I forgot how late it was.”

      “Late enough that this one should be sleeping, but he’s begin a stubborn bastard and won’t nod off.”

      “You have declared that you will perpetrate acts of licentiousness against my person while I am asleep.  I prefer to be awake when that occurs.”

      “Sorry, Greg.  No sexy behavior with my patient until I get him hooked up to a heart monitor.  Too many beats per minute and I’ll be evicting you from the premises, you lecherous copper.”

Lestrade made a rude noise, then nudged a chair over towards John to invite him to take a seat, an invitation that John gladly accepted.

      “And your evening, John?  Was it an enjoyable one?”

Mycroft’s voice expressed a great eagerness, but John wasn’t exactly sure how to answer the question.

      “Oh yeah… we had a great dinner, thanks for that Greg, finished all the moving, watched some telly and drank scotch, sorry about that Greg, I kissed Sherlock, he kissed me back, then threw me out of the flat.  It was a grand night.”

Mycroft and Lestrade stared at John until the doctor was certain he was going a bit red in the face and, then, a _lot_ red when Greg burst out laughing.

      “Well, there are worse ways for a date to end!  What do you think, love?  Mycroft?”

John and Lestrade both realized Mycroft was still staring and seemed, if anything, starting to worry.

      “Was… Was Sherlock upset?”

John heaved a sigh and hated that Mycroft seemed to becoming agitated by the discussion.  That was not what his patient needed.  Maybe this wasn’t a very good idea, but it was too late to back away now.

      “To an extent, yes.  He… he didn’t seem to appreciate being kissed, or, at least, that’s the impression I got, but when I tried to leave he stopped me and gave me a kiss before kicking me out.  It was a quick thing, but he could have let me leave on my own and never gotten off the sofa.”

John watched Mycroft think about what he said and slowly the worry began to bleed out of the older Holmes brother’s eyes.

      “You frightened him, but he was able to overcome that fear long enough to reciprocate.  If he did not wish to, he would not have done so, John, and you may take comfort in that.”

      “But why would a little kiss have spooked him so badly?  And it was just a little one; I didn’t stick my tongue down his throat or anything.”

This time, Mycroft smiled a gentle smile and John thought it might actually be a smile of long-awaited relief.

      “Because it was his first and I have doubts he ever believed such a thing would occur.”

Now, it was John and Lestrade staring at Mycroft and the older Holmes chucked lightly at their alarm.

      “Wait… _I_ was Sherlock’s first kiss?”

      “My brother has no regard for romantic entanglements and has failed to engage in them, even on the most casual, physical level.  He is, however, aware of the significance of a kiss and that you bestowed one upon him likely shook him to the core.  That he rallied to any extent is simply remarkable.  I would not be too distressed at your subsequent eviction, however.  He would need time, space and quiet to contemplate the situation and that could not occur if you were to remain.”

John kept staring at Mycroft, but felt his unease starting to evaporate.  Disappointment or elation?  Elation with a small dish of disappointment on the side and the disappointment was simply because he hadn’t gotten to stick his tongue down Sherlock’s throat and take a deeper and better taste of the luscious man.  And he might have a helping of smugness as a second course.  _He_ was that handsome creature’s first kiss.

      “Oh… ok then.  I was… I admit I was a little worried that I’d done something wrong.  That I’d misread his signals…”

      “You very likely did, because I am quite certain Sherlock’s visible indicators were not actually indicative of his thoughts and desires, because he is completely unsure, at this time, what _are_ his thoughts and desires on the subject of your association with him.  However, I shall not discount that his subconscious mind may have overridden his conscious intent and betrayed his true feelings.  Congratulations, John.  I admit that my teasing was a bit cruel, for I believed it would take far more effort on your part to bring Sherlock to this point and I happily find myself proved incorrect.”

      “Our little Sherlock had his first kiss, Mycroft.  I think I may cry.”

      “Do save that for the wedding, Gregory.  I am certain it shall be an intensely emotional event.”

      “I’ll fill my pockets with handkerchiefs, just in case.”

      “You certainly will not.  You shall utterly ruin the lines of your trousers.  Mrs. Hudson will surely attend and we may store them in her handbag.”

      “You two aren’t funny, you know.”

      “On the contrary, Doctor, Gregory and I are masters of the well-timed witticism.  You should feel honored to be the beneficiary of our humor.”

      “And on that note, I’m ordering one very cold sponge bath for you first thing tomorrow morning.  Have fun freezing your bollocks off.”

      “My dear, I fear I may require some measure of police protection.”

      “I’ll fill out the paperwork.  No nurse is going to get a cold, wet sponge near your bollocks with me on the job.  Now, if I get my hands on a _warm_ , wet sponge, your bollocks are right on the top of my target list.  Or sod the sponge and I’ll just use something else that’s warm and wet for giving them a little attention.”

      “Ok, I am officially on my way home.  You two are the worst conversationalists in the universe and absolutely deserve each other.”

      “I’ll walk you out, John.  I need to get some tea anyway and a sleeping potion for that one.  Mycroft, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Mycroft waved imperiously and reached for his sketchpad, earning a curtsy from his partner before Lestrade joined John in leaving the room.

      “Sherlock’s really ok, right John?”

Of course Greg’s trip for tea wasn’t just a trip for tea.  The Holmes brothers were very lucky they’d found someone as good-hearted and caring as Greg Lestrade.

      “Yeah, he’s good.  Mycroft’s right and now that I know the truth it makes sense.  Now, I’ll ask the same of you – Mycroft’s really ok, right?  Did he actually eat tonight or did those bags just empty themselves into your mouth.”

Lestrade sucked in a harsh breath and took the rebuke as his due.

      “Yeah, sort of forgot to mention that.  Sherlock filled you in?”

      “He did and I’m going to see if I can get someone in to start talking to Mycroft tomorrow.”

      “That’s probably a good idea.  I got a little out of him and he says he just doesn’t want to eat, even when he’s hungry, but doesn’t know why.  He did tonight, though.  Got a plate of dinner into him and I’m going to try to feed him some breakfast before I leave in the morning.  He didn’t protest much, so maybe he just needs a little encouragement.”

      “Well, fingers crossed for that.  An eating disorder is the last thing he needs, but it’s not out of bounds for what he’s been through.  Unless he’s been suffering it for awhile, I’m going to hope we can get it under control quickly.  And… I’m thinking of having him discharged sooner than I was originally planning.”

      “What changed your mind?”

      “Watching him work.  The best atmosphere for him right now is somewhere he can paint and feel safe and comfortable.  As soon as we pull the chest tube, I’ll talk to a few people and see how quickly we can get him home.”

Lestrade wanted to kiss John, then decided Sherlock would probably go insane if he found out.  Home… that was where Mycroft _should_ be and the sooner that happened, the better, in his opinion.  It would help his lover so much just being home with the people who loved him…

      “Good.  I think that’s a great idea.  I’ll make sure everything’s ready by the time he’s released.”

      “Alright, then.  Operation Speedy Discharge is a go.”

      “I’ll tell Mycroft… this is going to make him very happy.  And don’t worry… you and Sherlock want some privacy, we’ll go read in the bedroom or something.  Probably something, so ignore any moaning or screaming you might hear.”

      “I think my ears are bleeding.”

      “Want me to find some cotton?”

      “And more scotch.”

      “We can have a nip when you get off tomorrow morning.”

      “Scotch, the breakfast of champions.”

      “And we’re all thankful for it.”


	27. Chapter 27

Lestrade never really noticed he had a good internal clock until he realized he was able to tell himself he could have four hours of sleep, not a minute more, and his body happily complied.  Well, happily wasn’t the right word, but complied definitely fit the bill.  A quick glance at the time said he had just long enough to find Mycroft a sinfully-rich breakfast, get him to eat it, race to the flat for a shower and be at work not a minute late.  And that was important.  The hullabaloo of his situation had died down to a fairly unimpressive hum at the station, but that didn’t mean he was taking anything for granted.  He wasn’t going to give anyone a chance to say one bad word about his job performance.  It was already taking a massive amount of coffee to keep him alert through his shifts, but he was managing to stay on top of his game and not one late start to his day yet.  And, with the recent changes to his life, he was even more motivated than ever to get his rise up the ranks going.  As strange as it was, this business with Mycroft and Sherlock had taught him something important… he could take a lot.  He could handle and manage a _lot_.  He was determined and steady and creative and capable.  He didn’t give up or get so discouraged that he wanted to walk away and shut the door behind him.  He could face terrible things and feel energized to help fix them.  He was clever, too, and could find solutions to those terrible things or, at least, do something to make them better.

That’s what it took to be a good detective.  You needed to be motivated and level-headed.  You had to want to make a difference and be willing do whatever it took to accomplish that.  He always knew he was hard-working and had a good head on his shoulders, but he was learning there was a lot more to him and those things were valuable for the work he ultimately hoped to do.  So, he was now focusing on that work.  Making sure his record was clean.  Doing extra where he could.  Being the type of person you wanted up in the detectives ranks.  Someone who got the job done.  The hard job, too.  The brutal, ugly, tiring job.  Which, right now, meant finding pastries and convincing the most gorgeous man alive to join him for breakfast…

__________

      “Good heavens, Gregory.  I… how did you even lift such as thing?”

Lestrade grinned brightly and waved the large, bulging and hefty pastry in hand in front of Mycroft’s nose so he could smell that unmistakable pastry-shop aroma.

      “It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it?  I haven’t splurged on anything truly decadent in a long time and today seemed like a good day for it.  A little celebration for Sherlock’s de… is it defrocking?”

      “That is for priests.”

      “Oh, well, it’s de-something, so it’s worth celebrating.  And here’s some really strong coffee for me and a nice non-hospital tea for you.”

Mycroft continued to stare at the enormous chocolate-shined behemoth in front of him and began to feel the itch of suspicion laying siege to his mind.

      “Gregory… is this, perhaps, connected to our discussion from last night?”

No one ever said Mycroft was stupid, but Lestrade had hoped the smell of sugar, fat and cream would muddy this lover’s thoughts for at least a _few_ minutes.  Well, honesty was the best policy…

      “Maybe a little.  I know eating’s hard for you right now, and even those few bites you got last night were tough, though I was happy you indulged me.  I figured that if you can only manage a few bites right now, that’s ok, but we’ll make those bites count.  Really, tastily count.  And I wasn’t joking about celebrating Sherlock and John’s progress.  That’s what you do in life, right?  Take some time and celebrate the little victories?”

That was not something about which Mycroft could disagree and Sherlock… what a profound step forward in his brother’s life.  Even if this relationship between Sherlock and John did not bloom into anything long-term, Sherlock would know he _could_ manage a relationship with another person and that was certainly worth a festive few moments.  But, he did wish Gregory was not choosing as his celebratory method quite such a… debauched activity.  Nonetheless, he would do his best.  For his Gregory, he could do no less.

      “You are absolutely correct and I concur that a celebration is most appropriate.  But… a small one, on my part, if that is acceptable.”

Lestrade smiled as comfortingly and encouragingly as he could, but heaved a little resigned sigh in his mind.  Compromise… that would be their watchword and, at least, Mycroft wasn’t saying no…

      “A small celebration it is.  I’ll have a big one, though.  Long day ahead for this poor working man.”

The PC took a very large bite of the pastry, making sure it left as much mess as possible on his face and soaked up Mycroft’s laughter at his antics.

      “I hope the public is not aggrieved by their protector wearing nearly a full beard and moustache of chocolate.”

      “Nah, they’ll be impressed by my planning.  Get a little sugar craving, all I have to do is stick out my tongue and have a lick.”

Which he did, with as much erotic detail as he could, loving that Mycroft couldn’t pry his eyes away from the performance.  As shattered as his artist was, Mycroft still wanted him and that felt incomparably good.

      “I forbid you to return to duty with chocolate on your face.”

      “Don’t worry, love.  I’ll save all my theatrics for you.  For example…”

Lestrade ran his finger through the chocolate and cream of the pastry and made a very elaborate show of eating it off his finger, taking in every trace of Mycroft’s growing interest.

      “Naughty, naughty, Police Constable.”

      “Like I said, only for you.”

This long bout of finger cleaning had Mycroft hissing in pleasure and Lestrade decided that they hadn’t been interrupted by any staff yet, so palming the bulge in his trousers wasn’t exactly a risky maneuver.

      “Gregory…”

      “Like what you see?

      “Unquestionably.”

      “Want to see more?”

His partner didn’t need to answer.  The pretty little scene of Mycroft gently biting his lower lip said all there was to say, so, after a quick peek behind him, Lestrade made quick work of getting his pesky zipper down to give Mycroft his better look and continue the burlesque show.

      “Want to help?”

If his artist’s eyes got any darker, he’d be something out of a book about creatures from hell and one day soon, that creature would be in his bed doing the very best kind of evil over and over and over…

      “Then give me something to watch.”

Lestrade handed Mycroft the pastry and relaxed in his chair, stroking his growing erection and keeping his eyes locked on Mycroft’s.  His artist might not want to eat, might not like the idea at all, but it was clear he very much liked putting on his own performance for one highly-aroused PC’s viewing pleasure, taking tiny nibbles and long, slow licks, curling his tongue to capture bits of thick cream and sucking them in with a barely-audible slurp.

      “God you’re gorgeous…  so fucking gorgeous and sexy as fuck.”

When his lover’s vocabulary descended to repetitive expletives, Mycroft knew he had his Gregory fully in his thrall.  And that was wildly thrilling.  Someone like him with that glorious man in the palm of his hand… _thrilling_.  Certainly that deserved a protracted licking and sucking of sugar and chocolate off his own long fingers as a reward.  Oh, did his Gregory believe that was _his_ reward?  The low and long moan seemed to say he did…

      “D… do that again.”

      “Ummm… no.”

      “Please.”

      “I think not.”

      “ _Please_ , Mycroft.  Just a little.”

      “Oh very well…”

Mycroft scooped a thick finger-full of pastry cream and began to do utterly filthy things to it and his finger, savoring every second of Lestrade’s reaction until his PC had fingers full of something not quite so sweet, but every bit as delicious as the cream.

      “Ok… that was… we’re doing that again.”

      “I quite agree.  A most… palatable… way to begin the day.”

Lestrade flailed for a tissue, then remembered the napkins in the pastry bag, refusing to think that some of the heretofore-named sex sugar might be applied to his nether regions.  He’d be hard the rest of the day if he let that thought take root in his head.

      “If everyone in the world was as sexy as you, love, nothing would ever get done.  We’d be hip deep in anarchy by week’s end.  Nothing but people having a good time and taking a moment to go loot for food when they got peckish.”

      “Such a dystopian future you paint, my dear.  However, not an entirely unpleasant one.”

And, did his Mycroft just take a big bite of pastry and swallow it down with a smile on his face?  Ok, the key to his artist’s stomach must be through his heart and the sexy bits that made it beat.  He could live with that.  He could live with that _very_ easily.

      “Not unpleasant at all.  No, not one bit.”

      “Unpleasant, however, _is_ the time.  I do believe you need to make haste, Gregory, or you shall be late for your duties.”

      “What?  Shit!  You’re right.  Here, pop it in.”

Lestrade opened wide his mouth and Mycroft pushed in the remains of the pastry.

      “Y’l b ‘k tdy?”

      “Yes, my inarticulate one, I shall be ok today.”

      “G’t d scp frm Slk?”

      “I shall get, as you say, the scoop from Sherlock.  Now, do not make me shoo you along.  Your posterior will not be thankful for it.”

      “Sr ab tht?”

Lestrade waggled his muscular bottom at Mycroft who rolled his eyes and held back the chuckle so he could sound stern.

      “Yes, I am most certainly sure about that.  Goodbye, Gregory.”

      “Lv u.”

      “I love you, too.”

Lestrade grabbed his jacket and gave Mycroft a wave before racing out of the room.  As he was leaving the building, he almost ran into Sherlock, who was marching like a man with a purpose and it probably wasn’t compassionate to burst out laughing at the boy, but this day was a joyful one, so why not?

      “Have the final grains of your wits finally slipped through your fingers, Lestrade?”

      “No, but ask me again tomorrow.  He’s in a good mood, lad, so have fun today.  I’m sure you have lots to talk about, anyway.”

Sherlock’s slightly confused scowl made Lestrade laugh again before he clapped the student on the shoulder and strolled away to make his own start on the day.  Silly Mycroft… didn’t his artist think he budgeted shower wank time into his morning routine?  Everything was actually right on schedule…

__________

      “Why is Lestrade smiling?”

Mycroft felt himself hold back a very satisfied purr because Sherlock would be appalled by the sound.  What a phenomenal morning it had been… when he was fully able to participate, his lover would start every day possible with a smile.

      “We enjoyed a very luscious breakfast and a round of pleasant… conversation.”

Sherlock’s intense scrutiny was met only by Mycroft’s placid smile and a wave of his hand for him to take a seat.

      “And what is _your_ news, brother dear?”

      “What news would I generate between waking and making my way here?”

      “How narrowly you define the timeframe of my inquiry.  One might say suspiciously narrowly, if one were so inclined.”

      “I have no idea to what you are referring.”

      “Come now, Sherlock.  You and Doctor Watson enjoyed an evening of both labor and recreation, did you not?  Is it your position that nothing of note occurred that you might enjoy reporting?”

      “What is enjoyable about relocating our table to Mrs. Hudson’s attic?”

Sherlock’s voice was as nonchalant as he could possible make it, but there were so many little signs and signals being given off that Mycroft was surprised his brother wasn’t twitching from all the activity.

      “Well, if that was the entirety of your night, then I believe you owe Lestrade what remains of the funds he gifted you to assist your squiring of John around the city.”

      “There was no squiring!”

      “Oh, did you stay at home, then?”

Sherlock’s petulant huff was accompanied by what Mycroft was certain his brother thought was an imperious glare, but there was a hint of uncertainty and hesitance behind it.  The trick was to get Sherlock to explore that uncertainty so he could lay it to rest.

      “We did spend some time at Lestrade’s flat, yes.”

      “Engaged in what, if I may ask?”

      “We watched a truly mind-crippling film of John’s choosing and drank Lestrade’s tongue-stripping liquor.”

      “So, drinks and a film.  Was dinner involved at some point?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then we may award you a full date on your record.  Congratulations, Sherlock.  Of course…”

Sherlock realized he’d reached the limit of his glaring and that perturbed him further, because Mycroft was definitely attempting to manipulate him and that was certainly glare-worthy.

      “Of course what?”

      “Oh, nothing.  Dinner, drinks and a film is an exceptional first date combination.  Of course, this was better scored as your _second_ assignation and one would think that other components would be added to the computational matrix.  Such a shame…”

      “As if _you_ can be considered the arbiter of a successful date.”

      “Of course…”

      “Stop saying that!”

      “As you wish, I am just slightly…”

      “And stop pausing.”

      “My how the shackles begin to chafe.”

      “If you have something to say, Mycroft, then do so.”

      “Truly, Sherlock, I have nothing to say.  I simply assumed that by this second meeting, and owing to the obvious rapport between you and John…”

      “Pausing!”

      “… there might have been some _demonstration_ of that rapport and the sentiment serving as its foundation.”

      “Demonstration?”

      “Some small gesture, nothing more.  But, perhaps, you have not reached that rung on the ladder of the relationship hierarchy.  Odd, I would have thought you, of all people, would excel at climbing that particular organizational structure.”

      “You would?  I mean, naturally you would.  And, for your information…”

      “Pausing.”

      “Shut up, Mycroft.  As I was saying… there may have been a gesture.”

      “Ah.  Did you punch him manfully on the shoulder or pat him gently on the head?”

      “That Lestrade suffers you is completely incomprehensible to me.”

      “Trust that suffering was the farthest possible thing from the truth that my Gregory experienced this morning.”

Sherlock’s full-body shudder delighted his brother endlessly.

      “You will stop speaking immediately.  And, to rebut your inanity, I did neither.  I… I kissed him.”

Mycroft hadn’t been entirely certain his brother would admit it, so the large smile that lit up his face was completely without artifice.

      “Sherlock, I am absolutely astounded.  And overjoyed.  _And_ do stop attempting to discern if I am lying for I am unequivocally truthful in this.  Was this met by a positive response from John?”

It was only slightly unethical to maneuver his brother in this fashion, but the information he required must be delivered willingly and not under any form of perceived duress.

      “Actually… John kissed me first and I responded in kind.”

      “How excellent!  Then you are as assured of his state of mind regarding your association as he is of yours.  Truly, this is an exceptional turn of events.”

Sherlock’s brief, shy grin was not lost on Mycroft who truly meant every word he said.  If his brother was willing to discuss their kiss, he was not in a frame of mind where he wanted to hide the information because he felt upset or ashamed at the act or the confusion he was experiencing because of it.  However, that confusion was still lingering at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes and that would continue to trouble Mycroft until he could erase it from his brother’s mind.

      “I do not mean to pry, but… was this something you appreciated?  Enjoyed?  Do you hope to repeat this when next you meet?”

      “That is none of your business.”

A haughty tone and a princely wave of his hand.  Yes, Sherlock enjoyed their kiss quite a bit and had great hopes for a repeat performance.  Such a marvelous bit of news…

      “I shall not disagree, however, I asked only in my eagerness to share in your good news.  John shall be on duty tonight, will he not?  When are you hoping to see him again?”

      “We shall have breakfast together tomorrow morning.  I shall collect him when his shift ends.”

That the answer came quick as lightning told Mycroft that Sherlock had likely rehearsed several scenarios in his mind and settled on this one as the most likely to fit the pace and tone he wanted to set.  His brother was planning and calculating for the best outcome to this meeting.  If he was not physically debilitated, he would be waltzing around the room in joy.  Dancing… what a splendid thing to enjoy with his Gregory… that was immediately to be appended to his list of delights to share with his beloved PC.

      “A very good choice.  Do you have sufficient funds remaining?”

      “I… I was going to borrow some from the household fund.”

      “That will be fine.  We have not purchased groceries or other incidentals, so there should be a small surplus for you to use.  And do not forget… not all activities require money.  Avail yourself of those opportunities as often as you can.  John shall appreciate it, also, for he has mentioned that his own financial situation is not a wealthy one.”

      “You have a point.  I will investigate the possibilities.”

      “You might ask Gregory.  He seems to have a thorough knowledge of entertainment options for those of limited means.  And, I can assure you, the options are highly entertaining.”

      “Perhaps.  Though I shall have to endure his infuriating personality to obtain the information.”

      “John is worth the effort, I am certain.  But, Sherlock… do realize that if there is anything you wish to discuss about this new trajectory for you and the good doctor, any questions you might have about this area of your life, you are welcome to discuss them with me.  Or Gregory, if that is easier.  We are both very pleased with the situation and are committed to doing whatever is possible to make it successful and rewarding for you.”

Ah, a hit directly on target.  Sherlock eyes took an inward look and his uncertainty rose to wave and make its presence known.  There _was_ something Sherlock wanted to broach and now the door had been opened.

      “Sherlock… is there something you wanted to discuss?  I assure you that you have both my full attention and my full support.”

Mycroft watched his brother fidget in his chair and waited patiently while Sherlock gathered together the threads of his ideas and was ready to weave them together.

      “Will John… it is expected, is it not, that a kiss be followed by something more… intimate?”

Oh… Mycroft gave himself a mental kick because he should have predicted this concern.  His poor brother, there had been so little time to simply reflect on and discuss his single sexual encounter and Mycroft gave himself another kick for not taking point to encourage Sherlock to purge more of that black and viscous bile.  However, that Sherlock was exposing his vulnerability, seeking help for his worries, was highly encouraging.

      “Not as such, no.”

      “No?”

      “A kiss does not necessarily lead to sex.”

      “But… John is a healthy male.  Would he not want sexual relations with his romantic partners?”

And classing himself already as a romantic partner.  There would be _so_ much to share with Gregory later tonight…

      “You are confusing _want_ and _expect_ , Sherlock.  I want to be released from this institution this very instant, but I do not expect it.  We want many things in life, knowing that they may or may not ever be witnessed.  I am quite certain John does or will want further physical intimacy with you, however, he will not _expect_ that you shall offer it.  He is a man of character and that is a tremendous presumption… one that is highly disrespectful to your partner.  Gregory, knowing well my behaviors, did not expect sex from me, though our first meeting made the possibility a highly likely one.  I knew his interest and I shared it, therefore, when the time was right, we allowed that interest to flourish.  However, if, after expressing his desires, I asked for time, Gregory would not have hesitated to give it to me.  That is what a good man does, and John does impress me as a good man.”

      “And he would not take offense?”

      “No.  I will not say that if you are already engaged in an interaction and have second thoughts, he might not be frustrated… it would only be natural… but this is where you must communicate.  Tell him _why_ you are asking for the pace to slow or to cease the activity altogether.  Be honest and forthright.  To some, it would not matter and they would try to force the issue or declare you unworthy of their attention, but those are the ones who are not worth _your_ attention, Sherlock, let alone your affection.  Have you… I know you have discussed much with John, but did you…”

      “No.”

      “Very well, there is nothing wrong with that.  I would suggest though that, in time, you do make him aware.  With information comes understanding and that is a powerful support for a relationship.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a soft ‘pfft’ sound with his lips.

      “We do not have a relationship.”

      “I believe you are mistaken.  Oh, pardon me.  Let me be accurate… you are fully aware of the fact, but reluctant to admit to it.”

      “That is absurd.”

      “No, denying an obvious fact is absurd.  It is perfectly proper to call what you and John are building a relationship, Sherlock, albeit one in the early stages.  It is up to you to decide how much further you want to take it and how quickly.  There is no empirical formula for this, brother dear, no scripted plan, no right and no wrong.  What you and John decide, together, is correct and let no one tell you differently.”

Sherlock nodded and grabbed one of the books he had left in Mycroft’s room, using it to block his view of the brother who was gently smiling at his childish antics.  Mycroft knew he had no ability to describe how blessed was he to be able to watch Sherlock navigate his first true relationship, but he treasured the experience nonetheless.  In the darkest hours of the night, when his beloved Gregory was asleep, the thought might flit through his mind that his lover and his brother might be better off if he had simply died before they found him.  How much simpler and joyful would be their lives without his burdensome presence.  But then… he would have missed _this_ , wouldn’t he?  And feeling his Gregory’s warm and enveloping love, which had never wavered despite his confessions and admissions… perhaps tonight, he could rest a little easier with this ammunition at the ready for his visiting demons.  How nice it would be to lay a few cuts to their tough and scabrous hide…

__________

London in the rain was a peaceful, lovely place.  Unless you were a policeman, when it was a soggy, miserable place.  The job definitely wasn’t one for a weak, fussy person, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t groan in happiness at a hot shower, a quick glass of scotch and a sturdy umbrella as he segued from PC Lestrade to Greg Lestrade and made his way to the hospital that was keeping an eye on his partner.  Well, keeping an eye on his partner with help from Sherlock…

… who was sitting outside Mycroft’s room, sideways so his legs blocked the doorway, with a look on his face so enraged that Lestrade actually hesitated approaching him.

      “Sherlock?  What’s wrong?”

      “You are here.  Good.  We are taking Mycroft out of this… place.”

Whatever was wrong had to be a _big_ something wrong.

      “Ok, why don’t you tell me what happened?  Did Mycroft have a bad day?”

      “Not by his own or my making.  However, these so-called healthcare professionals… the Spanish Inquisition did not employ torturers of their caliber!”

Lestrade let out a large sigh and took the seat next to Sherlock.

      “Can you be specific?”

      “You want specifics?  Very well, shall we discuss the woman who came to discuss his diet and derided him for his thinness?  Chastised him for his lack of nutrition and poor food choices?  Shamed him for accepting an unhealthy body.  Spoke to him like a child who was unable to understand words of more than one syllable?  That was very helpful for him, as you can imagine.  Or the therapist who arrived on her heels and asked, as his first question, if Mycroft understood what had happened to him?  _Understood_?  I have no idea what transpired after that, as I was removed from the room, but it was not productive, if Mycroft’s condition when I was finally able to reach him is to be believed.”

Lestrade rubbed his eyes and counted to ten to let his temper settle.

      “So you’re here to make sure no one can begin to get in there to bother him again.”

      “Correct.  John claims the staff are kind and nurturing professionals, but I am beginning to believe his judgment is clouded.”

      “Ok… I think John’s actually got a good idea about the staff, but maybe hasn’t met all of them to know who’s good and who’s not.  And… well, I imagine that if the counselor was worth their wages, Mycroft _would_ be sort of beat up after a session.  I’ve heard they dig into things and really stir them up, which could make you feel relieved or kicked, depending.  What did he say to you?”

      “Nothing.  He simply shut down and has not uttered a word.”

      “Ok, let me see if he’ll talk to me.  And… what time is it?... ok, when we see John, we can ask a few questions to find out what’s going on.  How we perceive things might be off the mark…  though, I’ll be honest and say I’m not happy about what I’m hearing.”

      “Nor should you be.”

      “Why don’t you come in with me and…”

      “Mycroft will likely be more comfortable speaking with you alone than if I am present.  Though he… he is very willing to make himself available for conversations of a personal nature that concern me, Mycroft is very reluctant to reverse our roles.”

      “That’s what older brothers do, lad, don’t feel bad about it.  Ok then, I’ll let you know how it goes.”

Lestrade rose and, after giving Sherlock’s shoulder a quick squeeze, walked into Mycroft’s room and stood for a moment to collect his emotions.  His lover looked so fractured…

      “Mycroft?  How are you doing?  Sherlock said it was a rough day.”

Pulling a chair as close to the bed as possible, Lestrade took Mycroft’s hand and laid a few soft kisses against his lover’s skin.

      “I do not like it here.”

Well, he was talking, so one victory could be claimed.  But the brittle, broken tone of his beloved artist made the victory a cold and unpleasant one.

      “Can you tell me why?  When I talk to John about it, I’ll need examples and details to make your case.

And another victory.  Mycroft surprised gasp said he hadn’t been expecting to be taken seriously.

      “You… you would speak to John about this?”

      “Absolutely!  He may overrule me and that’s his right as your doctor, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try.  And if he says no, I’ll trust that he really believes it’s the best decision for your health.  But let’s give it a shot and see what happens.”

A landslide of darkness fell away from Mycroft’s face and Lestrade felt his heart melt into a big pool at his feet.  Though he doubted the hospital staff did anything wrong, if Mycroft and Sherlock were taking it poorly, then this was _not_ the best place for his lover to be right now.

      “Thank you, Gregory.  Thank you so much…”

Lestrade reached over and wiped the tear that began to roll down Mycroft’s cheek.

      “You’re welcome, love.  You know I’d do anything for you.  Now, Sherlock said the woman who discussed your diet…”

      “A gorgon.”

      “Ok, the gorgon that discussed your diet was a disaster.  I guess you agree with that.”

      “If her degree, should she possess one, is being used for anything other than toilet paper, then I would be sorely surprised.”

      “A disaster it is.  No matter what happens, I’ll make sure she doesn’t get within a hundred paces of you ever again.  She can’t be the only one here that can do the job, so we’ll comparison shop, if need be.  And the counselor… Sherlock said he didn’t get to stay for that but…”

Some of the darkness flowed back into his lover’s eyes, but Lestrade could tell it was a different shade of black.  This one wasn’t externally generated, it came from within… maybe the counselor wasn’t as bad as Sherlock thought.

      “He… he was not completely derelict in his job.”

      “Dug up some things you’d rather stayed buried for now?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “Hit a few nerves that were still too raw too even be touched?”

      “You are quite perceptive.”

      “Did you punch him?”

      “Gregory!”

But there was the tiniest, almost embryonic, grin on Mycroft’s face, so Lestrade gave himself a firm pat on the back.

      “Well then, seems like he thumped a few existing bruises, which hurts, but doesn’t put any new marks on you.  That’s something to be thankful for, at least.  It’ll happen sometime, I’m sure… I don’t know much about all of this, but it’s supposed to dredge up new stuff for you to stare in the face, I think.  There’s plenty of time for that though, no reason to get started right now, but when it happens, I’ll be there to help however I can.  As for today, it sounds like he made a good start, even if it wasn’t pleasant for you, and I am sorry for that, Mycroft.  I wish you never had to hurt again for any reason.”

Mycroft felt another tear fall, but this one was driven by his extreme love for the man still holding his hand.  How a man, so beautiful in body and spirit, could have fallen into his life was still inconceivable, but there was no chance that he would ever attempt to return this precious gift.

      “We all suffer our pains, my dear, but knowing you are with me, makes mine immeasurably easier to bear.”

      “And I’ll always be there, don’t ever doubt that.  Now, can I tell Sherlock his turn at guard duty is over?”

That did bring a small smile to Mycroft’s face, which turned to gaze fondly at the door and the long legs he could see stretched out across the opening.

      “He _was_ rather upset by the course of today’s events.”

      “Sherlock said he had to be removed.  I would have loved to see that.”

      “It was a gentle removing.  I think the nurses have grown a soft spot for him.  I am well aware they allow him to pilfer their personal tea supply when he appears especially anxious or frustrated.”

      “That’s our boy!  Already charming the nurses… he’d better watch out, though, or John will be jealous.”

      “Ah, a point consider.”

      “Any… anything I should know about last night?”

      “My, you do wiggle your eyebrows in a suggestive fashion.  And… yes.  Sherlock is content with the new direction in his and John’s relationship and plans to take John to breakfast in the morning.  He desires to pursue this, Gregory.  I could not be more pleased.”

      “Good for them.  Really, that’s fantastic news.  I was a little worried that the lad might pull back a bit, but looks like he knows a good thing when he sees it.”

      “I cannot deny that he has concerns, mostly along the lines of the physical matters, but it is my hope that he will take my advice and use communication as a tool to work through those concerns with John.”

Mycroft saw Lestrade’s wince and knew his partner understood the nature of Sherlock’s specific concerns.

      “I forgot about that.  That was… it was Sherlock’s first time with that sort of thing, so yeah… I can see where he might be nervous considering it again.  John won’t push him, though.  I’m good at reading people and I can tell you right now, John won’t take things faster than Sherlock’s comfortable with.”

      “I know that he will not.  But, Sherlock needed to be assured that was the case.”

      “Is he ok now?”

      “Better.  I would not be surprised, however, if their first sexual encounter goes much like their first kiss, and I can only hope that John has time to retrieve his trousers before he is evicted from the flat.”

Two grown men giggling was enough to have Sherlock peer into the room and decide it was safe to enter to investigate.

      “Why are you tittering like schoolgirls?”

      “Because they’re the best titterers in the world.”

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade, but there was a question in his eyes that, fortunately, Lestrade’s reassuring nod laid to rest.

      “You are puerile.  Apparently, I must remain here to ensure the level of intellect in the room stays above that of the turtle pond at the zoo.”

      “Actually, Sherlock, I am of a rather reptilian turn of mind at the moment, so you may consider yourself free to remain or leave to tend to your research projects.  I would hate to detain you now that Gregory is here.”

Sherlock thought a moment, then dropped in a chair and folded his arms across his chest.

      “There are likely still people present in the lab and I prefer to arrive after they have removed their stupidity from the building.  Besides, Lestrade and I are waiting to have words with John.”

      “Oh, what about?”

Three heads whipped around to stare at the doctor, whose jovial smile was beginning to fall from his face as he took in the various levels of emotions in the room.  In the next second, Lestrade and Sherlock were out of their seats and, with each grabbing one of John’s arms, dragging the man out of the room and to the small lounge at the end of the hall.

      “This can’t be good.”

      “Mycroft must be discharged immediately.”

      “Sherlock, calm down and let John hear the story before you start ordering him about.”

John looked between Lestrade and Sherlock and knew something objectionable must have happened to get them this agitated again.  And, as the two men took turns laying out the scenario, he had to admit they might have a point, especially if Mycroft himself was upset by the day.

      “So, it is blindingly obvious that Mycroft must be liberated from this prison camp.  I expect you will compile and sign any relevant paperwork tonight.”

John stretched a little, then stood up and shook his head at his friend.

      “No, that’s premature.  Let me go check a few things and then we’ll talk some more.”

Lestrade had to hold Sherlock back from following the doctor, who studied Mycroft’s chart and had an off-the-record talk with the nursing staff who, though they hadn’t been on shift when Mycroft’s meetings occurred, knew the relevant personnel and were more than happy to offer their opinions.  When John returned, he had a much firmer grip on the situation and how he should proceed.

      “Ok, you’ve got a legitimate complaint about villain number one.  She’s fairly new and already has a reputation for not being the most compassionate person on staff.  Probably won’t last long here, if that’s any consolation.  As for villain number two, Greg’s suspicions are good ones.  He’s a solid practitioner and can do a lot of good, but… he does prefer a more aggressive course of therapy and that might not fit with Mycroft’s needs right now.  Maybe I’m wrong and he could use someone who’ll push him hard, but with his physical problems, I’d rather not see him drained and distressed to the level you described.  Later, when he’s got the energy to spare, it’s an option, but right now, maybe not.”

      “So, you agree, Mycroft’s needs cannot be met in this chamber of horrors.”

      “Sherlock… Mycroft’s treatment has been top quality and I won’t have you maligning the hard-working people that are making that happen.  Now, wait here.  I’m going to talk to Mycroft.”

Both Lestrade and Sherlock opened their mouths to protest, but John just wagged his finger and walked away, hoping that his doctor’s face would be enough to overcome their urge to storm in and protect his patient.

      “Ah, John. I am very surprised Sherlock and Gregory have already finished with their speeches.”

      “Don’t look so smug, you evil thing.  Sending your flying monkeys at me isn’t going to make me do something that’s not in your best interests.” 

John took a seat and gave Mycroft a good hard stare before continuing on.

      “Sherlock and Greg say you need to go home.  What do you say?”

      “I agree most heartily.”

      “Ok, now think again after you realize that once you’re home, you won’t be on a pain drip, though you will get some pills to help with things.  You’re going to have to rely on Greg and Sherlock for everything… no help from friendly hospital staff.  And, if something happens, there’s not going to be anyone close by to give you medical help.  I can justify keeping you here awhile, Mycroft, because you have enough physical traumas to warrant a longer stay and having full access to treatment is the most efficient way to manage them.”

      “Most efficient does not equate to sole possibility.”

      “No… no, it doesn’t.  If I discharge you, it’s not the same as hurling you to the wolves, but it’s not too far off of that.  I told Greg that I’d help however I could once you’re discharged, but it’s not going to be the same as the quality of care you receive here.  I’m going to be honest, Mycroft… the only reason I’m even considering letting you out of that bed sooner than later is that I’m becoming convinced that your mental and emotional welfare will benefit more from being moved to Greg’s flat than your physical welfare will suffer.  Now, please think a moment and not with the surface rush of emotions, but with that intelligence that I know you’ve got hidden in your skull and tell me what you think is best.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to tell John that reflection wasn’t necessary, but stopped when his mind began to do it without his permission.  He hurt… it might not be something he was comfortable sharing with Gregory or even John, but he hurt deeply and unceasingly.  The pain medication made it tolerable, but he knew its intensity from the times when they lowered the dosage and ache crashed into him like waves pounding a rocky shore.  And what John said about responsibility… Sherlock and Gregory would bear alone the responsibility for his care and that was an exceedingly difficult matter to consider.  He did not want to burden them further; they already were doing so much to assist with his healing and keep his spirits high.  To ask more of them… it was unthinkable…

However, he was used to pain.  He did not enjoy it, did not seek it out, but he could endure it and it would not last forever.  It would fade each day until it was nothing but a memory.  And he was not entirely enfeebled.  Without the various fetters and the watchful eye of the nurses, he could certainly demonstrate greater mobility and contribute more to his own care.  It was what he preferred, actually.  He was comfortable tending to his own needs.  He felt more at ease and less anxious when he could make his own decisions and choices, making the effort himself to ease the ills the world had wrought.  He had done it his entire life and those ills were sometimes… savage.  But he had succeeded.  He had persevered and there was no reason he could not do that now.  Sherlock and Gregory would have to provide extra assistance, that was true, but not as much as John might be envisioning…

      “I want to go home.”

John knew that he had no ability to tell how much of that statement was honest and how much was just a desire by his patient to crawl away and hide, like a wounded animal.  But, no matter which it was, the outcome would be the same, Mycroft would be at Greg’s flat and he could still keep a close eye on his recovery.

      “Ok.”

      “Are you being serious?”

      “Yes.  I don’t think it’s the best decision, but it’s not the worst one, either.  Not right this second, mind you.  I’ve things to pull out of you, paperwork to do and all sorts of other witchcraft to make this happen and that’s going to take some time.  Here’s what we’ll do.  I’ll have things arranged and when Greg arrives tomorrow, we’ll make it happen.  I can find someone to cover the first couple of hours of my shift so I can make sure you’re set up properly and then check on you again the following morning before I go home.  Is that ok?”

The two shouts of ‘Yes!’ from the doorway didn’t actually surprise John, who was quickly realizing that dealing with any one of these idiots meant dealing with the other two.  However, that was actually an important thing for Mycroft’s care, so he’d cope, at least for issues that didn’t involve him, Sherlock and wherever they were going after last night.  Which he should probably talk to Sherlock about.  Or not.  Go with the flow… that was an absolutely valid philosophy.

      “Mycroft, your vote?”

      “I bow to the majority.”

      “Alright, then… it’s settled.”

      “And I shall reward you with breakfast when your shift is concluded.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to Sherlock who seemed to be wavering between pride in his relationship skills and embarrassment for… well, he wasn’t sure what for, exactly.

      “Ok, that’s the best offer I could possibly ask for.  Now, let me do something actually resembling wage-earning work and Sherlock… I’ll see you in the morning.”

John almost made it out of the room, but Sherlock stopped him and very stiffly gave him a peck on the lips, before racing off down the hall to tend to his suddenly critical research questions.

      “I’ve really hope he’s going to stop doing that one day.”

      “Look on the bright side, John.  At least there were no doors for him to slam this time.”

      “Thanks, Greg.  You’re a good friend.”

John indicated with two fingers how just how good a friend he thought Lestrade to be and set off towards the nurse’s station.

      “Looks like we won this round, love.  Happy?”

      “I am ecstatic, Gregory.  I am going _home_.”

Each man felt that word slam into them and Lestrade had no ability to stop his legs closing the distance between him and his lover and giving Mycroft a deep, yet tender kiss that said everything they knew words could not.  When Lestrade pulled back, Mycroft stroked his partner’s cheek and allowed the emotions of the day to rise up and serve as a source of inspiration.  And, if he was honest, to be processed.

      “Gregory… would you mind terribly if I used this time to draw?”

Lestrade thought that sounded like a brilliant idea and quickly gathered Mycroft’s supplies after setting up his bed tray.

      “I wouldn’t mind a bit.  Got myself a book to read, so I’ll be fine.”

      “And later… perhaps something decadent?”

Lestrade met Mycroft’s slightly shy eyes with his own, which he knew were _gleaming_ at the idea.

      “Decadence you say?  I think that can be arranged.”

Now that gleam was shared and the PC marveled that tomorrow night, they could do a little more with that gleam.  In their own bed.

      “And I have not forgotten, my dear, your promise to pose for me.”

      “Well, starting tomorrow night, you’ll have all the opportunities you want.”

      “I anxiously await each one.”

And from the wickedness of his smile, Lestrade was certain Mycroft did.  But then again, so did he…


	28. Chapter 28

      “Why aren’t you asleep?”

      “Your bedside manner is positively scintillating, Doctor Watson.  You must receive notes of appreciation from every patient sufficiently fortunate to come under your tender care.”

      “Watch out, John.  Mycroft’s been a handful all night and I think he’s just getting warmed up.  Someone’s too excited to sleep, just like a little kid on Christmas Eve.”

John tried to give his patient his most impressive doctor scowl but let it drop away to a frustrated huff.  Mycroft _did_ look like a kid at Christmas and, after all he’d been through, that was actually a good thing.

      “And _you_ let him.  Well, it’ll be on you to carry him up to your flat when he’s dead asleep by afternoon.”

      “My pleasure.  He’s easier to manage when he’s asleep anyway.  I can drink and eat whatever I want and not have him glaring at me and lecturing me about vitamins or my liver.”

      “Gregory Lestrade… I have yet to give you any cause to accuse me of henpecking.”

      “It pays to be prepared.  Man’s gotta expect a little nagging when he wants to sit around the flat in his pants, watching the match and drinking cheap liquor.”

      “Is this something you are likely to do?”

      “Ummmm…. yes to the last two, no to the first.  I never found the pants-on-the-sofa relaxation technique very relaxing.  But you should see me in my ten-year old shorts and a curry-stained shirt.  It’s a thing of beauty.”

      “John, I am reconsidering my upcoming relocation.”

      “I’ve got bunny slippers somewhere too, I think.”

      “I am also _now_ reconsidering some form of lethal injection.”

      “Greg, stop riling my patient.  Don’t worry, Mycroft.  I’ve rummaged through his closet and there isn’t a bunny to be found, slipper or not.”

      “I am inexpressibly relieved.”

      “But I _can_ confirm the old, stained, tasteless clothes.  I can give you a prescription for tranquilizers, if you’d like.”

      “For Gregory or myself?”

      “That’s something you’ll have to decide.  Now, I’ve got your discharge papers ready to go, so when your sad and pathetic boyfriend comes back this evening, we’ll get you out of here.  Sherlock and I came up with a list of things that will probably make the transition easier, but all of that can wait a bit. The only thing I might say to pick up would be a few more pillows and blankets, just so you’re comfortable sitting up in bed or on the sofa.  I’ll talk to Sherlock about going out to shop for them after breakfast.”

      “That is unnecessary.  I am quite certain I shall be fine.”

      “Mycroft, listen to John.  He says more pillows and blankets, we’re getting them.  And towels and whatever else is on their list.  It’s not like it’s nothing we’ll never use again and if it makes you more comfortable, then that’s all the more reason for some shopping.  Let’s do this right, love, or having you home might not be the good idea we thought it was.”

      “Will you, at the very least, allow me to pay for those purchases?”

      “If you can spare the cash, sure.  If it’s going to hurt, no.”

      “I have funds set aside, as you know, for Sherlock’s education needs.”

      “Then the answer’s no.  Leave that money there for now.  At least you know it’s there when the new term begins.”

      “No, that is not something of which I can be assured because Sherlock has yet to stand before the judge for his little indiscretion.”

      “Shit… you’re right.  I completely forgot about that.  And his court appearance is probably coming up fairly soon.  Ok, you want to pay for today’s shopping, you do that.  Once Sherlock’s gotten whatever penalty he’s going to get, then we can figure out a way to rebuild his education fund.  And, when you’re a little better, I can look at finding some extra work to perk up my wage packet.”

      “Gregory…”

      “It’s alright, Mycroft.  If there’s one thing I’m not afraid of, it’s work.  As long as I still have time to spend with you, it’s going to be fine.”

      “We shall speak further on this issue, my dear.”

      “As often as you like.”

      “Are you referring to sex?”

Which, from the look on the newly-arrived Sherlock’s face, was not something he hoped to hear.

      “No, we’re talking about… talking.  But we’re not starting now, because it’s my turn in the shower and I’ve got to get to it to use it.  Mycroft, I’ll see you later.  You two… be good.”

Sherlock had no idea why he was receiving such a peculiar grin from the PC, but since Lestrade _was_ , in his opinion, peculiar, he felt the issue settled itself.  Anyway, the man was gone and, therefore, no further mental energy was needed to decipher Lestrade’s inanity.  He would, instead, address the person in the room had come to collect and reserve his precious mental energy for him. 

      “I am here to take you to breakfast.  I assume you are prepared to leave.”

John cut a glance towards Mycroft and was not surprised the artist appeared to be holding in a good, hearty laugh at his expense.

      “Actually, I am.  I was just checking in on things here before we left.  Mycroft, there’s not really anything you can do to get ready for this evening, so just relax and enjoy the day.  You’ll get a final check over at some point, though, so do your best not to terrorize the poor bastard who gets that duty.”

      “I shall endeavor to be as pleasant as possible.”

      “Good.  Well, ok then… Sherlock?  Shall we?”

      “Yes.  Mycroft, I will return… at some point.”

A point which Mycroft fervently hoped would be later than sooner.  Before he could voice this opinion, however, Sherlock was pushing John out of the room, leaving the artist alone and ambivalent about the fact.  He was very used to solitude; it was an old friend that had served him very well in the past.  However, it was also a friend by necessity and that necessity no longer existed.  These past days he was finding himself with a niggling discontent when he was left to his own devices.  It was a new sensation and one he would have to contemplate deeply to understand its meaning.  If he had his paints and a canvas, he would begin that reflection now, but such was not to be.  At least, not at this moment.  Tomorrow… tomorrow he could set up an easel, or some semblance of one, and begin to work.

He would be able to paint again.  And, as shameful as was the thought, he could do it with some measure of comfort, not worrying that his fingers were not sufficiently limber due to the cold or being distracted by the numb hollowness in his stomach because he had not eaten that day.  Or the day before.  None of that should matter for the most important thing was the feeling in his heart and soul that he strove to present on the canvas… but they did.  Just the smallest and fewest amenities and he could focus more on his art than the mechanics preventing him from rendering it as fully as he might.  Too much excess would be detrimental, that much he knew and feared, but the security of regular meals and enough heat so that four layers of clothing was not necessary to stop the shivering… it would make a incalculable difference.

But, since paints weren’t on hand, Mycroft picked up the stack of plain paper and assortment of pencils that had been his tools and began to sketch.  He wasn’t quite sure what this piece was going to be, but his hands seemed to know what they were doing, so he was content to let them take charge for awhile…

__________

      “So, where are we going?”

      “Lestrade frequents a squalid little establishment close to his flat.  We shall eat there.”

      “Wow, that sounds amazing.  Squalid, huh… what type of cuisine is that?”

      “You are trying to be amusing, aren’t you?”

      “Apparently not, so moving on.  How’d your research go?”

      “Progress was made.  If the buffoons that populate the laboratory would simply find other spaces to conduct their pointless experiments, my progress rate would escalate exponentially.”

      “Well, maybe one day you’ll have your own lab and won’t have to worry about the buffoons.”

      “That is precisely my intent.  Perhaps.”

      “Perhaps?”

      “I… I am not entirely certain how the shape of my future shall appear.”

      “Oh.  I thought… well, I don’t really know what I thought.  You just seem so passionate about your work that I supposed research would be what you were leaning towards.”

      “As I said, I am not entirely certain.”

      “That’s fine, you don’t need to be.  I’d say most people change their mind about what they want out of life and more than once, at that.”

      “Yes, but those individuals did not send their brother into slavery so that they might obtain a degree that might ultimately prove worthless.”

      “One, you didn’t send Mycroft into slavery.  Two, no degree is worthless, Sherlock.  They all represent commitment and hard work and the training of the mind.  Even if you don’t go directly into the field you’re working on, you might go into something related and the skills will still be useful.  Don’t be hard on yourself.  It’s not warranted.”

      “I think Mycroft would disagree.”

      “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Mycroft’s greatest desire is for you to be happy, so he’s not going to care the path you take to get there.”

      “That path has resigned him to penury.  If we had not come to London…”

      “He’d still be doing what he’s been doing and maybe you’d have a nicer place to live, but that would be the extent of it.  He would be carrying his secrets around with him and all of the pain that went with them for the rest of his life.  And he wouldn’t have found the person who looked beyond the surface to find someone who’s a valuable person worthy of love.  He wouldn’t have met Greg.  They say things happen for a reason and, sometimes, I think that’s actually true.  I wouldn’t have met you, for instance.”

      “Ah… that is true.  And I forgot…”

Sherlock stopped and gave John a peck exactly as stiff and awkward as the one the night before and John found he was starting to find it sort of endearing.

      “Thank you.  That’s nice.”

      “Of course it is.  Otherwise I would not do it.”

Well, that was confirmation Sherlock enjoyed their kisses, at least.  Strange and pompous confirmation, but he’d take what he could get.

      “Obviously.  Oh, and if you have time, can you pick up a few things on that list we made?  Mycroft will be ok for a bit while you hit the shops.”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “I do not do the shopping.”

      “Not to sound repetitive, but why not?”

      “Mycroft does the shopping.”

      “Mycroft can’t do the shopping, so that leaves you.”

      “Lestrade can do the shopping.”

      “Except he’s at work and chasing a suspect when he’s got a couple of new pillows under his arm probably isn’t good for his chances for promotion.”

      “You can do the shopping.”

      “First, I have to sleep.  Second… no, sleep is enough of a reason.”

      “Sleep is superfluous.”

      “No, sleep is necessary.  Breakfast, a good day’s sleep, then breaking your brother out of hospital.  Sounds like a very full day I’ve got ahead of me.”

      “And the shopping.”

      “I am _not_ doing your shopping.”

      “We can discuss it further over breakfast.”

      “Not doing the shopping.”

      “And there is our destination up ahead.  Nor far, I believe, from a selection of highly relevant shops.”

      “What part of ‘not doing the shopping’ don’t you understand?”

      “Were you speaking?  I thought I saw your mouth moving, but I might have been mistaken.”

      “Perfect.”

__________

      “Ah, Sherlock.  You were gone for quite some time.  May I assume that your breakfast date with John went well?”

      “Naturally.  John is noticeably pleased with my company and is content to linger during our activities.  And do my shopping.”

Of course his brother was smiling… household obligations were to Sherlock as a poisoned apple was to an evil queen.

      “Sherlock… please do not tell me you inveigled John into running your errands.”

      “Very well.  What else would you like to talk about?”

      “If you abuse your relationship with John, take advantage of his goodwill and helpful nature, you will find yourself without a relationship to abuse further.”

      “John was happy to accede to my wishes.”

      “I find myself doubtful of your veracity.”

      “I allowed him my share of the jam at breakfast.”

      “And that was sufficient?”

      “John greatly enjoys jam.”

      “Then your domestic relations should be simple to manage.  I do not believe Gregory can be bought so cheaply.”

      “It is not my fault your choice of partner is problematic.”

Partner?  Now, wasn’t that an interesting term?  However, pursuing it now might not be the wisest choice.  Sherlock seemed comfortable and that would likely change if he was subject to scrutiny.

      “No, that is a responsibility I gladly assume and shall live blissfully with my problematic choice for as long as I am able.”

      “Bliss will be a highly relative term in Lestrade’s flat.  I am not entirely certain that the volume of the flat will permit sufficient oxygen to sustain three adults.  I will have to perform the calculations.”

      “There are windows to open in times of imminent asphyxiation.  Now, how shall we spend these final few hours in purgatory?”

      “I have research notes to study.”

      “Excellent.  And I have a few ideas I would like to sketch.  An outline, as you will, on paper that I might flesh out more fully later.  But Sherlock… would it violate your fundamental behavior code to return to the flat at some point and obtain for me a change of clothes?  I would prefer not to leave here in this disgraceful hospital garb.”

      “And it was not possible to inform me of this before I was out with John and within sight of Lestrade’s flat?”

      “It was certainly possible, however, the idea did not cross my mind until this very moment.  I do apologize for not being sufficiently prescient for your convenience.”

      “I suppose I might find time to once again make the journey across the city, and back again, to provide you with clean pants and socks.”

      “Might I beg trousers and a shirt to accompany that very welcome garment base?”

      “You are very needy today.”

      “I do apologize.  My crippling vanity saps my moral strength.”

      “I will report this to John.  He will not be pleased that he spent his off hours securing blankets for a man of such a depressingly clingy nature.”

      “I shall thank him profusely at my first opportunity.”

      “See that you do.”

__________

Lestrade wouldn’t say he was anxious but if he was a cat, he’d be doing that strange thing they did when they had their tail straight up, their hair was on end and they sort of walked sideways just because someone coughed and gave them a fright.  Mycroft was coming home!  For the first time!  Tonight, they’d be in the same bed and he could actually do more to warm and support his lover than pat his hand.  No more hospital to worry about… that was as much of a relief for him as it probably was for his artist.  There was just an ease about being home that was hard to define, but was powerful nonetheless, and now Mycroft could enjoy that to the fullest.  As well as his paints.  He’d have to think of some way to get his partner set up in front of a canvas comfortably, so he could actually _use_ those paints, but he’d do it.  Whatever it took, he’d get Mycroft back to painting.  That one day when he got to watch his artist completely lost in his work was still one of his favorite memories.

But more than that, it would help Mycroft heal.  It _would_ , he just knew it.  Even if Mycroft had a hard time talking about his problems, working on his art would help him with them, somehow.  He’d read that somewhere, hadn’t he?  Didn’t matter, it made sense anyway.  Mycroft exposed his soul when he worked on his art and there was no way he’d miss the stuff that had been dredged to the surface when he looked at that soul while he painted.  He’d have to face it and think about it and maybe he’d reach out to talk about it, too.  And they could talk in real privacy now, in their own bedroom.  That was the best time to talk, when you were curled up together under the covers, the room dark as night… things just flowed out that you couldn’t bring yourself to say during the day.  They’d be there together every night… well, after he put in his night shifts to make up for the ones he was avoiding right now, but, even if they curled up during the daytime, that was a good time to talk, too.  And there would be no worries about being overheard by ears Mycroft might not want to hear his about feelings yet…

So, all he had to do was finish his day by not ending up in hospital next to his lover, sidestep any mountain of paperwork that might be waiting to drop on him, get lucky enough that last-minute problems on the streets didn’t tie him up for hours after he should be getting _off_ of those streets… and then run home, make sure everything was ready, he was cleaned up and presentable, there was food in the fridge and the bed was made and free from Sherlock’s hair or whatever else that daft bastard might have spread on his sheets today.. easy.  Ridiculously easy.  Not a problem, nothing was going to go wrong... ok, he was now officially nervous…

__________

      “You are attempting a jest.”

Mycroft looked at what Sherlock was holding out for inspection and cursed, for the thousandth time, his lack of ability to simply do things himself.

      “It is not my fault if Lestrade’s taste in clothing is abysmal.”

While there was nothing necessarily abysmal about the track pants and related shirt he was being handed, it was… _situationally_ abysmal.  His figure was not exactly suited to fill out such an ensemble; the slimness of his frame would not do justice to the robustness of the cut of the cloth… oh very well, they were monstrously ugly.  His artistic sensibilities were desperately trying to shield his eyes from the despair.  Really, Gregory… were they brown or old crusted mustard in hue?  At least the shoes were his own.

      “Be that as it may, why am I being presented with Gregory’s garments in the first place?  Did you perhaps forget to actually relocate my own wardrobe to our new home?”

      “You carry a variety of injuries, internal and external, and a looser outfit should be more comfortable for you.  The only area of issue might be in the length of the sleeves and trousers, but after inspection, I believe they will be fine.  Is that an acceptable argument for you?”

      “Unfortunately, yes.  I see your point quite clearly.”

      “As well you should.  Now, I shall assist you in changing.”

      “Absolutely not.”

      “You do not have, as they say, anything I haven’t seen before.”

      “That is not the issue.”

      “The only possible issue would be modesty and I can assure you that I take no pleasure ogling your nudity.”

      “That is not the only possible issue.  Just… wait outside a moment…”

      “Absolutely not.  Oh, there must be an echo in here.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “If I assist you, this shall take half the time and, likely, half the discomfort than if I do not.  Refusing my assistance not only demonstrates your stupidity, but calls into question the matter of you leaving here at all.  If John cannot be certain you will do what is necessary for your health and welfare, he will not allow you to leave.”

      “Are you threatening me with… tattling?”

      “ _Whatever_ is necessary for your health and welfare.  I shall also inform Lestrade and I am very certain his response will not be in your favor.””

      “I am aghast at your impertinence.”

      “And if cared about that, it might make some difference in my decision.  We shall begin with the shirt.”

Mycroft glared at Sherlock who waved off his brother’s disapproval so imperiously that it actually cracked Mycroft’s wall of displeasure.  His brother was showing concern and that was what he should be concentrating on, not the fact that getting dressed was actually going to be difficult for awhile and that the thought made him feel even more useless than he had previously.  And… oh yes… he would also have to suffer the disgusted looks of those laying eyes on his very unappealing form.  Not that he could see that on Sherlock’s face, but his brother wasn’t entirely unskilled in concealing his emotions from view.

      “You have lost weight.”

      “A bit, perhaps.”

      “Your description is underwhelming. However, your bruises show signs of healing, as do the cuts and that is a positive sign.  John removed your chest tube, I see.”

      “Last night.  It was not as distressing as I would have imagined.”

Sherlock chose not to pursue whether his brother was or was not lying, but there _was_ likely some form of chemical assistance used to moderate the experience… regardless, it was behind them now and he, for one, was happy to forget it.  It took a few moments for Sherlock to get the hospital robe off of Mycroft’s shoulders, since he was doing everything possible to avoid shaking his brother’s body.  It was _not_ that he was hesitant to actually touch Mycroft emaciated frame.  That was the height of absurdity.

      “Naturally.  As John performed the procedure, I would expect it to be as perfectly done and painless as possible.   Lift your arms as best you can and I shall put on your shirt.”

As best as he could was not as well as he liked, but Mycroft stopped at the point his ribs protested sharply and hoped that Sherlock didn’t comment on his weakness.  Just as he would not comment on his brother’s obvious praise of the good doctor.

      “Hmmm… how severe is the pain?”

      “As long as I do not lift them higher, it is acceptable.”

      “That suffices.”

Sherlock ignored Mycroft’s slight look of panic as he moved to get the large, heavy shirt over his arms and head as his brother would not have appreciated the sympathy.  Nor would any note be made of the pained hiss as he jostled his brother’s torso getting the shirt situated.  But, he did have to ask…

      “John has reduced your pain medication.  I admit I failed to register the lack of an IV.”

      “He felt it best to begin last night.”

So his brother was in greater pain than he calculated, however, it would be easier to bear in the familiar surroundings of Lestrade’s flat.  And Mycroft was now sheathed in a thick shirt, which would help greatly with heat retention.  No one else might have noticed that his brother had been chilled during his hospital stay, but he did.  Though… John _had_ brought extra blankets to lay on his brother when he was sleeping…

      “That was likely the best plan.  Now, trousers.”

Trousers, which should have been a simpler matter than the shirt, turned into a very delicate, very awkward and very painful process that left both brothers rather taken aback at the complexity of the maneuver and with the conviction that there was some stepwise procedure that medical staff must know but of which _they_ were certainly unaware.

      “Fortunately, you will not be seen outside the flat for some time and your lack of different clothes each day will not be noticed.  I am _not_ doing that tomorrow.”

      “I concur.  I have no objection to inhabiting these… vaguely cumin-colored garments for the foreseeable future.  Gregory may object, however, to the ever-increasing aroma.”

      “Then it shall be on his head to do something about it.  Whereas your naked body does not perturb me unduly, I am not prepared to bathe you like an infant.”

      “May we mutually agree to forget you ever concocted that particular mental image?”

      “Yes.  I have no idea what came over me.  However, John was to purchase a quantity of towels sufficient for our enlarged household, so when Lestrade decides to uptake the duty of combating your rising stench, you shall not have to drip dry.”

      “One should be thankful for even the smallest blessing in life.”

      “Agreed.  On that note… are you sufficiently warm?”

Ah.  Sherlock _had_ noticed… he had not wished to further burden John and Lestrade with a complaint of chill, but he should have known his brother would see the truth of it.  Sherlock had spent years watching him suffer the cold.

      “Yes, thank you.  It was actually very considerate of you to bring these specific clothes.  They are both comfortable and warm and I do appreciate the thought.”

      “I shall instruct John to purchase for you another set, but in a color that does not promote vomiting when viewed by a member of the human species.”

      “Do not take advantage of John’s generous spirit, Sherlock.  However… green would be pleasant.”

      “I shall make a note of it.”

__________

      “Well… that’s a lovely suit.”

      “Thank you, John, however, this now makes me wonder if your vision is quite as robust as should be required for your profession.”

      “I was trying to be nice.  That’s the color of something I usually associate with the need to order a patient a colonoscopy.  But, it’s roomy and has to be warm, so I approve.”

      “Mycroft would like another in green.  You may add that to the list for your next excursion to the shops.”

      “Yeah, that’s the first thing, right at the top.  Mycroft, you don’t mind if I take your brother outside and beat some manners into him?”

      “Be my guest.  But, do leave him somewhat able to assist with my relocation.  I would hate to overstress either your or Gregory’s back.”

Considering Mycroft weighed about the same as a sparrow, John found that highly unlikely under any circumstances.

      “He’ll still be able to carry your feet as we haul you up the stairs.”

      “That is quite acceptable.  And thank you, John.  I was advised of your excursion for our benefit; it was very considerate of you.”

      “You’re welcome.  Which reminds me… Sherlock, here’s they key you lent me.  I did a final walk around, too, and everything looks fine.  As soon as Greg gets here, we’ll be on our way.  Got all your things together, Mycroft?”

Things?  Considering he arrived with no clothing or other personal possessions, Mycroft found that an amusing statement.  But he wasn’t entirely bereft of goods…

      “Gregory collected my sketches in a folder which should be in that drawer, along with the remainder of my supplies.  The books he brought to the flat with him this morning.  Besides these few items on my bed tray, I am packed for transport.”

      “I’m glad the sketches are coming.  I know you can make a thousand of them, but they’re so amazing, I’d hate to see any thrown away.”

      “You are too kind, John.  I shall delight in presenting you with something suitable when I have returned to my paints and canvasses.”

      “ _That_ I would treasure.  Of course, hanging it in my flat would be criminal, but I’d be happy to do it anyway.”

      “Then we may discuss the theme at your convenience.  Now, shall we have a final cup of this establishment’s special tea before I am evicted?”

      “If that’s the memory you want to carry out of here with you, be my guest.”

      “It shall serve as a forceful reminder of why I never want to find myself confined within these walls again.”

      “Then a semi-warm cup of tea for everyone.  I, for one, can always use a little force in my day.”

__________

_Ok, just running a little late.  Probably shouldn’t have taken a shower.  Or made a couple of stops.  But there was Mycroft’s room, so it was all fine…_

Lestrade burst into Mycroft’s room and felt his heart soar that his artist was not only present and as healthy as he’d left him, but was giving him a large and highly-pleased smile.

      “Gregory?”

      “Yeah?”

      “You look… remarkable.”

And Mycroft was being entirely truthful.  His love was standing in the doorway with his hair carefully combed, wearing a pale blue button-up shirt that was neatly pressed and dark gray trousers that were cut perfectly to emphasize the narrowness of his waist and the very appealing curve of his bottom.  He was positively stunning.

      “Why are you dressed as if you are attending a funeral?”

      “Shut it, Sherlock.  For your information… I just wanted to look nice for Mycroft coming home.  It’s a special occasion and I wanted to… I just wanted to look nice, ok.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but John stepping heavily on his toes made him reconsider.

      “And I am dumbstruck by your appearance, my dear.  Thank you for considering this an event of significance.”

      “I do, too.  I really, do.  And you’re wearing my clothes!  They’re great, aren’t they?  Comfortable as hell and the color’s nice, too.  Yeah, you look good in them.  Really good.  So… are we ready?  John, is everything ready?  All ready to go?  Got everything taken care of?  I mean if we have to wait a bit, then we have to wait a bit, but if we’re actually ready then… well, then we’re ready.  Mycroft, you ready?”

If Mycroft didn’t already love his partner with his whole heart, he would surely do so now.  His Gregory was nearly glowing with anticipation and completely undone by his excitement.  His eagerness even overshadowed his maddening lack of color sense.

      “I am more than ready.  If someone will permit me an arm for support…”

Lestrade nearly leapt to the bed and gave Mycroft his arm, along with the assistance needed for his artist to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed to use that arm to help him stand on his feet.

      “Well, that’s good, but now I have to get a wheelchair, so you might as well lay back down for a few moments.”

      “A wheelchair won’t be necessary, John.  I can manage quite well with a small amount of support.”

      “And if you fall and crack your head open like a melon the hospital is liable for your injury.  Just let me get the wheelchair, Mycroft.  I’ll be quick, I promise.  Waltz or something while I’m gone.”

      “Oh, that does sound divine.  Gregory?  Shall we?”

Two strong arms wrapped around Mycroft’s waist, holding him firmly, but very gently, and the soft hum of a tune began to fill the air.  After a slow wrapping of his own arms around… well, not quite his lover’s shoulders, but at least his upper arms… Mycroft found himself slowly led into a very limited and mostly swaying motion that was as enjoyable as the grandest waltz at a royal ball.

      “I’m going to be sick.”

      “Envy can do that, little brother.”

      “There is nothing to envy about the two of you waving like blades of grass during a breeze.”

      “The envy’s getting thicker, love.”

      “Most certainly.  Do not worry, Sherlock, I am confident John will be willing to dance with you should you ask.”

      “John and I have better ways to spend our time than pointless activities such as dancing.”

      “You know what say about a good dancer, don’t you, Sherlock?”

      “What?  I mean… how would you know about that particular condition, since your dancing skills are deplorable?”

      “Well, Mycroft doesn’t think so and that proves my point.”

      “Which is?”

      “That how well you dance with your partner shows how well you do other things with your partner.  Things that are sort of like dancing, but you do them horizontally.  Mostly.”

      “That makes no… oh.”

Mycroft and Lestrade shared a grin and hoped John had his dancing shoes shined.

      “And since Mycroft and I dance very well together…”

      “Once again, I am sickened.”

      “You might ask John to prescribe something.  And here’s the man himself with a good, solid wheelchair.  But…”

Lestrade carefully loosened his grip on Mycroft and quickly grabbed a pillow from the bed and one he used when he napped next to said bed and set them to be a cushion and back rest in the chair so Mycroft would have a less stressful ride.  Then he helped his partner slowly make his way into the chair and studied him a moment for any hint of problem before nodding sharply and clapping his hands sharply one time to signal victory.

      “There we go.  Sherlock, John… can you get him downstairs?  I’ll go and get a cab for us.  Maybe two cabs since I don’t want Mycroft squeezed in the damn thing.  Yeah, two cabs.  I’m going to get two.  You two will be ok getting him downstairs, right?”

Not that Lestrade waited for an answer, because he was already racing out the door to probably stand in front of any passing cab to get it to stop for him.

      “Your lover has lost what few brain cells serve as his mind.”

      “Gregory is simply happy that my hospital stay has come to its conclusion, Sherlock.”

      “Greg’s off his nut like a father bringing home his newborn.”

      “I have already informed Mycroft that I will not participate in his bathing. That shall now be extended to any form of child-rearing behavior.”

      “Ok, good to know.  Mycroft… as soon as you give the word, we’ll get going.”

      “Consider the word given.  I am as anxious as Gregory to see this room no more.”

      “Then off we go.  Sherlock, carry Mycroft’s things, will you?”

      “His lap is entirely unencumbered.”

John pulled a blanket off the bed and dropped it on Mycroft’s legs.

      “And now it’s not.  Well meet you at the elevator.”

      “Already I am being transformed into a dray animal.”

      “Rest assured, brother dear, there shall be fresh hay aplenty as your reward.”

__________

True to his word, Lestrade had two cabs waiting when Mycroft and his entourage exited the building and the artist struggled to hold back the laughter at the sight of his partner bouncing foot to foot and grinning ear to ear when he caught sight of them.  This was what it meant to be loved; having someone who was truly glad to see you, even if what they saw wasn’t entirely pleasing to the eye at the moment.

      “Yes!  Here, love, me and you in this one.  Let’s get you settled… I suppose we’d better leave the pillows… Sherlock!  Give me your jacket.”

      “No.”

      “Give me the jacket, you bastard.  It’s mine, anyway.”

Sherlock snorted loudly before handing the jacket to Lestrade who wadded it and laid it on the seat of the cab.  Then it was a wave at John to do the same and the second jacket was used to cushion Mycroft’s back after he was folded into the back of the cab.  John returned the wheelchair to the hospital staff, then gave a quick wave to the colleague who was covering the first hours of his shift before making his way back outside to take the second cab with Sherlock.

      “Mycroft is a lucky man.”

      “I would say the circumstances of his life refute that statement.”

      “He’s got Greg, Sherlock.  You have no idea how lucky that makes him.  There are so many people who’d be going home alone right now or going back to a home that wouldn’t support them properly.  And he’s got you.  Don’t think for a minute that you being there for him didn’t factor into my decision to approve his discharge.  You’ve been a great help to your brother and that’s made a very big difference.”

Sherlock’s tiny pleased smile wasn’t lost on the doctor, who was very happy Sherlock just accepted his words and didn’t try to hide his delight behind some caustic comment.  He was understanding more of Sherlock’s behaviors every day, but it was still nice to see his friend express something openly and honestly.

      “Of course. I have spent my lifetime handling the minutiae of our lives so that he lives a life of ease.”

      “Like the shopping and cleaning.”

      “Examples are too numerous to remember any specific ones.”

      “Like I said, Mycroft’s a lucky man.”

__________

Lestrade did his best to comfort Mycroft during the ride, which was noticeably hard on his artist, and gave the heavens a word of thanks when they arrived at his building with everyone intact.  After paying both drivers, it was the work of some moments to extract Mycroft from the cab and then the work of many moments to help him walk to the building and up the stairs to their home.

      “Ok, love.  Take it easy.  You’re doing so well…”

      “Gregory, I am simply walking.”

      “And you’re doing a brilliant job of it.”

Sherlock’s audible gag made Mycroft chuckle and the look of sheer adoration on his PC’s face warmed his heart.  He had never experienced what might be called a homecoming, but now he could state that the joy of the moment was undeniable.

      “Hold on, let me get the door.  There we go… welcome home, Mycroft.”

Lestrade escorted his artist into the flat and knew he’d carry the memory of how Mycroft’s eyes had started to water when he took a step across the threshold.  And then, of course…

      “Flowers!  Oh, Gregory… that was not necessary…”

The large bouquet of flowers in a simple glass vase on the kitchen table made that slight eye-watering turn to full, fat tears rolling down Mycroft’s cheeks and the artist chided himself for being so careless lately with his emotions.  But… they were beautiful and no one had ever done anything so utterly loving and romantic for him before.

      “Yeah, it was.  I love you, Mycroft, and I’m so happy, so grateful, you’re going to live here with me.  A few flowers don’t even come close to what you deserve for giving me that gift.”

Lestrade helped his partner into the flat and motioned for Sherlock to grab the flowers and follow them as they walked towards the bedroom, where Lestrade directed they be placed on the dresser where Mycroft could see them easily.

      “You’ve got extra pillows to prop you up and a radio to listen to.  If Sherlock doesn’t want the telly, I can roll it in here before I leave in the morning or, if you’re feeling up to it, I can get you situated out there, instead.  And your supplies are right next to the bed and we can figure out how to get you set up to paint, which I already have a few ideas about, but…”

Mycroft kissed the excited Lestrade into silence and John took the opportunity to get the bed turned down and pillows arranged for best support of his patient.

      “Gregory… you are a gem of a man and I cannot fathom for a moment how I have gained the favor of Fortune so she placed you in my life.  I do not believe it is possible to be happier.”

This time it was Lestrade who gave the kiss, a soft one on Mycroft’s cheek that lingered as he simply relished the feel of his lover’s skin against his lips.  Then it was maneuvering Mycroft into bed and, along with Sherlock, suffering being shooed out of the bedroom by John, who demanded a private moment to check over Mycroft after his relocation.  After their eviction, the PC motioned to Sherlock to follow him to the kitchen.

      “Well, Sherlock.  We made it.”

      “It was a cab ride and a short walk to your door.  Did you believe we would be attacked by wolves on the way or that the Apocalypse would erupt en route?”

Lestrade’s rude gesture was cheerily given and he felt a celebratory drink was in order, placing a bottle of lager in Sherlock’s hand and taking one for himself.

      “Sherlock, we’ve had about zero luck in all of this, so making it here without incident qualifies as a miracle.”

The student stopped to think and had to admit Lestrade’s argument had merit.

      “You may have a point.  I do predict, however, that Mycroft’s health will show more rapid improvement now that he is here.  He has endured physical challenges before and endured by the force of his will.  His mind exerts great influence over his body and the happier and more secure he feels…”

      “The more good that brain of his can do.  Yeah, I agree.  And, let’s be honest, it’ll be easier for us, too.  Don’t tell Mycroft, but I’m dead on my feet.  I can’t begin to describe how happy I am knowing I’ll actually sleep in my own bed tonight.  Of course, I’ll probably be awake the whole time because I’ll be staring at your brother watching for any problems, but it’s going to be leaps and bounds better than trying to sleep in that fucking hospital chair.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared at Lestrade to the point the PC actually became a little worried about what the boy was thinking.

      “It has not impaired your work, has it?”

      “No… thank god.  That’s what coffee’s for.  The most it’s done is have me taking more piss breaks per day.  That’s one thing I’ve made sure of… I cannot, not in the slightest, have this hurt my work.  There are eyes on me right now and I’m going to make sure those eyes like what they see.  Weird as it sounds, this is a chance to show what I’m made of.  My superior knows what’s going on, he even asks me how things are going when I see him and I know, I just _know_ , he’s checking behind my back that I’m completely on point and doing my job right.  He’s seeing that I’m not letting anything slide and that’s going to work for me in terms of advancement.”

      “Is it accompanied by a rise in salary?”

      “That it is.”

      “Good.  Your wages stretch as well as a balloon made of brick.”

      “Thanks for that.  As it is, I’m going to have to find a second job to help cover things for us.  Something that pays cash with no pesky records that the tax man can find.  Or my bosses.”

      “That should not be a problem.  There are always a myriad of menial labor opportunities available for the right person and you are highly qualified as a menial laborer.”

      “Right.  No beer for you.”

Sherlock lost his unsipped beer which was handed to John who had joined them, wearing a smile that made the last of Lestrade’s tension float away.

      “Thanks, but only the one.  I’ve still got to work tonight.”

      “One it is, then.  How’s he doing, John?”

John took a long, appreciative sip and ignored Sherlock’s enormous pout.

      “Good.  For someone who’s exhausted, in a lot of pain, overwhelmed with a huge variety of emotions and can’t keep his fingers from reaching for his art supplies, he’s doing very well.  If you can get him to sleep tonight, I think tomorrow will be a good day for him.  But do try, Greg.  Get him to sleep, I mean.  Rest is what he needs now and lots of it.”

      “I will, John.  Now, how about we take this party into the bedroom, so he’s not in there alone.”

      “He can’t have any beer, you know.”

      “Neither can I, apparently.”

   Lestrade laughed and handed the disgruntled Sherlock a new beer which was quickly sipped to establish territory.

      “There you go, lad.  And don’t worry, Doctor Watson.  I didn’t just get beer.”

The PC set down his bottle and opened the refrigerator to pull out a small cake that he had bought just before he picked up the flowers.

      “Plates and forks, please, Sherlock?  John grab a knife out of that drawer.”

      “Cake and flowers?  Greg, you are the king of romance.”

      “The king of insipidity, perhaps.  And why are you, a physician, approving of cake, which is bereft of anything approaching nutritional quality?”

John just grinned, but gave a little nod of understanding to Lestrade.  They’d had a most informative conversation on the topic of Mycroft’s eating the night before.

      “Because anyone who disapproves of cake has something wrong with their brain.”

Sherlock just shook his head and pulled out the plates, noting that John had added to the collection of crockery and glasses so that washing dishes several times a day was not going to be necessary to keep them from dining using their palms as plates.

      “And I’ve discovered Mycroft’s got a sweet tooth, which gives me a nice way to give him a treat now and then.”

      “If you had asked, Lestrade, I could have given you that information.  Once, my brother stabbed me with some form of paint tool that resembled a pie serving utensil when I attempted to remove a sweet from the assortment a customer had traded him for a sketch.  It nearly broke the skin and I still received nothing, even as an apology.”

Lestrade and John tried for a full half-second to look commiserative, then dissolved into giggles at Sherlock’s very obvious indignation for his mistreatment.

      “Sorry about that, Sherlock.  I’m sure you caught him on an off day.”

      “All of my brother’s days can be described as ‘off’ days and I would think an officer of the law, such as you, would have a fundamental commitment to the precepts of the law.  I was battered and that demands proper acknowledgement.”

      “For your trauma, you can have the biggest piece of cake, how does that sound?”

      “Marginally acceptable, but it will do.”

      “Marvelous.  John, ready to party?”

      “You three are animals.”

      “Wait until I break out the ice cream.”

__________

As Lestrade had hoped, a bit of cake was too much temptation for Mycroft’s topsy-turvy mind to reject and he was able to eat a full half of a piece before setting aside his portion for Lestrade to finish.  A good hour of conversation followed with John continually monitoring Mycroft’s condition for any unexpected emotional downturns or physical issues that were taking their time manifesting and, when no dragon rose up to be slain, the doctor gave a good stretch and stood up next to the bed.

      “And that’s me calling it a night.  Or, rather, that’s me getting _started_ on my night.  I’ll stop in tomorrow morning after my shift is over and see how things are going.  If you need to, Greg, put a ‘don’t come in, we’re shagging’ sign on the door and I’ll come back another time.”

      “I’ll make one and have it laminated just in case.  We’ll probably be using it a lot.  And thanks, John, for all you’ve done.  It’s been… well, it’s been more than we could have asked for and I, for one, am more grateful than you can imagine.”

      “And I second that, doctor.  I do not know how I would have fared in other hands, but I suspect the experience would have been significantly more difficult and unpleasant.  You have been my friend in this, John, and that is not something I take lightly.”

      “John is now leaving before his ego becomes over-inflated by your maudlin speeches.”

Sherlock propelled John out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him so that the sniggers of the older pair were officially inaudible.

      “You could have let me get _some_ inflation, Sherlock.”

      “It is not healthy.  Look at what a modicum of praise has done to Mycroft; he is more insufferable than ever.  I will not allow you to suffer the same fate.”

      “Some fates are more enjoyable than others, just so you know.”

      “That fact is not sufficiently relevant to store in my memory, so I am deleting it immediately.  However, since you will be returning tomorrow morning, I am prepared to offer you breakfast and… if there is something you wish to do, I might be willing to accompany you while you do it.  Provided it interests me, of course.”

Yet again, one of the strangest and most awkward gestures John had been given, but it _was_ a gesture and not one he was going to refuse.

      “That sounds great.  I do have a few things I want to accomplish, but it’s mostly an excuse to do a little walking around.  It’s supposed to be a nice day and I could do with some fresh air in my lungs.”

      “That is not something you’re likely to find in this city.”

      “Fresher air in my lungs, then.  Compared to the hospital and my flat, it’ll be a nice change.  And I’d be happy to have you come with me.  Thanks for the offer.”

      “You’re welcome.  I assume you’re leaving now, correct?”

      “Yeah, I only bargained a couple of hours at most and I do have my share of patients besides Mycroft to tend.”

      “Very well.”

John was about to question Sherlock’s deep breath when the kiss landed on his lips and this one wasn’t a peck.  It was slower, softer and, whether it was designed to or not, coaxed a little more depth from John, who parted his lips and let Sherlock tentatively explore his mouth, while the student’s hands just as tentatively explored the skin of his neck and then cheek and, finally, lips as Sherlock pulled back and ran his long fingers across the lower lip he’d nipped gently before breaking their kiss.  And, this time, John wasn’t being pushed out the door.

      “I like kissing you.”

      “And I like it, too, Sherlock.  A lot, actually.”

      “Good, because I am considering doing this often.”

      “That’s fine with me.  Does that mean I can have another before I go?”

      “Aren’t you short on time?”

      “Kisses are like cake… there’s always time for them, even if they _are_ nutritionally bankrupt.”

      “That doesn’t make sense.”

      “Then kiss me again before I say something even more stupid.”

      “That _is_ a compelling argument.”

      “Thought you’d like it.”

__________

      “Well?”

Lestrade gave a thumb’s up sign to Mycroft and grinned as he drew his ear away from the door.

      “Haven’t heard anything and the door hasn’t opened, so there’s definitely something going on.  Our little boy’s in love, Mycroft.  And snogging John senseless by the lack of sound of it.”

Mycroft smiled a very satisfied smile and patted the mattress to beckon Lestrade over to join him, which the PC quickly obeyed.

      “I cannot properly express my thoughts on this day, Gregory, but know that it is the most profoundly moving one of my existence.  It is… I am surrounded by four new walls, in a bed that is not my own, wearing clothes not meant for me and I am delirious with contentment.  You are a marvel, my dear and I hope to spend each of my days emphasizing to you how wondrous you are to me.”

A very careful repositioning had Lestrade holding Mycroft’s thin body, so that the artist could recline against him.

      “You are the most special person in the world to me, Mycroft, and there is nothing I want more than to spend each of _my_ days reminding you of that simple fact.  Now, John says you need to get your sleep. Think you can do that?”

      “At the moment?  No.  Besides, Sherlock _will_ join us after John departs to help regain his equilibrium and I very much want to be awake for that.  But soon… soon I will be quite ready to follow doctor’s orders.”

      “And I get to be here next to you.”

      “Something I have been anticipating greatly.”

      “You sure?  I do snore, you know.”

      “I shall simply insert a corner of the blanket into your mouth to muffle the noise as I always do.”

      “Ok, that explains me waking up with fibers in my teeth.”

      “I shall remember, in the future, to purchase only bedding made of natural fibers to spare your digestive system the insult of synthetic polymers.”

      “Very kind of you.”

      “For you, no kindness is too small or large for me to deliver.”

      “Can I sleep on the left side of the bed?”

      “I don’t believe I heard you, Gregory.  Try not to mumble when asking for such ridiculous things.”

      “Yes sir.  I’ll try, sir.”


	29. Chapter 29

As Mycroft had predicted, Sherlock needed a little centering after whatever had transpired between him and John and it was a good hour of conversation before the younger brother left them alone for the night.  Then it was another hour of what Lestrade had to describe as reorganization – getting Mycroft comfortable in a new position for sleeping, putting extra blankets on the bed, adding thicker socks on his feet, laughing because after all of this they both needed a trip to the loo, which was slow going in Mycroft’s case… when they were finally under the blankets, Lestrade lay on his side and embraced his lover as fully as he could, loving the fact that Mycroft carefully repositioned himself to _curl_ as fully into that embrace as possible.

      “Think you can sleep, love?”

      “I shall do my best.  I truth, I am quite fatigued, but my mind is not necessarily prepared to end its day.”

      “I know what you mean.  I knew this day would come, but I’m still stunned it’s here.  You’re home, Mycroft.”

Mycroft cursed that, once again, tears began to flow, but he couldn’t stop them.  His Gregory had no idea how powerful a word was ‘home’ to him.  His childhood home was abominable, the flats he and Sherlock had occupied invariably felt temporary, transient… he could honestly say that he had never felt in his life as if he had truly had a home, until now.  This flat, with his lover at his side, settled a peace in his body and mind that he had never before known.  There was a familiarity, a comfort, a contentment to every part of the space and his and Gregory’s affections were almost tangible, much as a table or a lamp.  This was not something he had believed he would ever find, yet here he was and the feeling was nearly blinding in its intensity.

      “Oh, Mycroft…”

Lestrade wiped his artist’s face and kissed him softly on the tip of his nose.

      “I am sorry, Gregory… it is unseemly of me to…”

      “Stop right there.  You feel like letting the tears flow, you do it.  You feel like laughing, you do it.  John said you were going to be more emotional than normal for awhile, so let it out when it wants to come out.  I actually hope you do that all the time… you’re gorgeous when you’re full of emotion.  With those beautiful eyes filled with tears or happiness or anger… you’re breathtaking.  Don’t try and hold things inside, Mycroft, not on my account.  I love you and never want you to think you have to hide what you feel from me.”

      “Shall… shall you do the same?”

      “Do you want me to?”

      “Most certainly.”

      Then, absolutely!  There are going to be days in my job I’m going to want to scream, cry, break into song or something just as silly… I like knowing you aren’t going to expect me to be one of those men who keep all their feelings bottled up.  It’s hard sometimes to be calm or stoic when you see the things I have to see and I like knowing that I can home and let the mask drop.  Does that sound ok?”

It sounded heavenly.  For so many years, for most of his life, in reality, he had to suppress everything he felt to protect himself from feelings that were far, far worse.  Now, he no longer had to lie or hide.  And his Gregory _welcomed_ it…

      “It does.  Thank you, my dear.  I admit that it is difficult now to control expressing what I experience, even minor emotions are overwhelming, at times.”

      “And they probably will be for little while.  By the time you’re back out there catching customers with that winning smile of yours, it won’t be so hard.  I wonder though…”

      “Yes?”

      “I know zero about this, but how will this… emotional issue… affect your art?  Is it wrong for me to say I’m actually interested to know what it’s going to mean for your paintings?  I can see differences in your sketches, for instance.”

Now, that was unexpected.

      “You do?”

      “Yeah, but just small stuff.  I’ve seen you sketch people and the ones you did of, say, John or Mrs. Hudson, just look a little different.  A little less… smooth, but, at the same time, a little more forceful.  The eyes are different, too.  A little more… something.  Small differences that I can’t describe because I don’t know how, but the ones you did in hospital aren’t quite what your older sketches look like.  Not better and not worse, just… not the same.”

If he was not completely exhausted, Mycroft would be gathering his work to evaluate his partner’s critique.  It was a very intriguing idea and one he was actually anxious to explore. Perhaps, he still had a bit of energy…

      “Are you trying to get out of bed?”

Lestrade chuckled and clung to Mycroft more tightly to prevent his escape.

      “I was simply… yes.”

      “You want to grab your sketches, don’t you?”

      “I will admit to some eagerness to see for myself what you are describing.”

      “And you can do that tomorrow.  We’ll sit here and look through what you have and maybe I can do a better job of showing you what I’m trying to say.”

      “You must depart early in the morning, mustn’t you?”

      “Yeah, but I should be home on time, providing London doesn’t decide to go insane.  We can do it then or the next day because guess who has a day off?  Nah, don’t worry about guessing, I’ll tell you.  It’s me!  And I plan on staying late in bed with a handsome man, making breakfast for that handsome man and if I can get him set up with his paints tomorrow, maybe listening to the radio or something while he gets started on a new piece. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of a better free day in my life!”

No, he was not crying again.  He was not.  Just because he was placed at the center of his Gregory’s world and treated as if he were not only loved, but treasured… valued…

      “So you get a good night’s sleep and you’ll at least get the breakfast part of our big day a little early.  Not going to leave here without shaking my bum in the kitchen to make you something absolutely delicious.  Well, at least you’ll be able to choke it down with enough tea.  Goodnight, Mycroft.  I love you and I’m very, very happy you’re home.”

      “And I love you, too, Gregory.  I am very, very happy to _be_ home... more happy than you can possibly imagine…”

__________

Lestrade gave a quick thumb’s up to the goddess of luck that when he woke Mycroft was not only asleep, but deeply asleep and he was able to sneak out of the bed, get showered and dressed and start the kettle going for tea.  And there were plenty of eggs to make a nice full plate, so he could share with Mycroft.  His artist seemed a lot more comfortable eating when it was a communal event, or a sexy one but there was no time for that, so they’d have a nice plate of eggs and some toast and share a few moments before he had to leave.  Or, if Mycroft didn’t want to wake up, he’d have a hearty breakfast and maybe be able to skip lunch.  Had to start watching their food bill, along with all the other bills, so the money would stretch.

      “Are you planning on feeding the entirety of the blackshirts with whom you work?”

      “Funny.  For your information, I’m keeping you from having to clean an extra plate when you wash the dishes.”

      “John purchased sufficient crockery that we shall be well provided until you have a free moment to do the task yourself.”

      “Funny again.  You’re amazing, Sherlock.  Looking like a toddler just waking up from his nap and you can sling the funny lines like a professional.”

And, with his tousled hair, bedraggled nightwear and sleepy eyes, Lestrade truly did think the boy looked like a very young tot.  The stubble didn’t even do much to destroy the image.

      “I am forgetting I was speaking to you and begin this conversation afresh.  Where is my breakfast?”

      “In heaven?”

      “I have a long and tedious day ahead of me since I must stagnate in this rapidly decaying shanty tending to Mycroft and I require additional energy to prevent myself from slipping into a coma of despair.”

      “Isn’t John coming by this morning?”

      “And how is that relevant.”

      “Have a little toast if you want, but why don’t you do something really unexpected and nice – cook breakfast for him.”

      “Have you lost what few scattered flecks remain of your senses?”

      “Cooking for someone sends a strong signal and a romantic one, at that.  You want to do something for them.  Give them a little treat that took more effort than pulling out your wallet to pay a restaurant bill.  Doesn’t have to be fancy, but it shows they mean something to you and that’s important.  Think about it.”

Lestrade plated his eggs, rimmed the plate with toast, hooked his finger through the handles of the mugs and gave Sherlock a big smile.

      “See?  Not fancy, but Mycroft will know I cared enough to make sure he had something nice to eat before I left.”

      “ _If_ he eats.”

      “Thanks for trying to harpoon my good mood.”

      “The facts cannot be ignored.”

      “I know.  That’s why… look, I’m trying, ok?  When Mycroft starts with a counselor they can give him the real help he needs and maybe tell me what I can do to support him, but right now, I’m doing the best I can.  And it’s working.  A little.  He had some cake last night, didn’t he?  And a couple of spoonsful of ice cream.”

      “All completely bereft of nutritional value.”

      “But it’s fattening and I’d argue that’s important on its own right now.”

Sherlock huffed, but didn’t argue because it was actually a valid point.

      “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Raincloud, I’ve got a partner to feed.”

Lestrade’s ‘so there’ face preceded his march to the bedroom door, but lost its impact when he had to whistle Sherlock over to open the door for him.  And how nice it was to see Mycroft’s eyes fluttering open when he walked through that door…

      “Sleeping Beauty is awake!  And beauty is the right word, too.  You’re gorgeous when you wake up in the morning and drowsy and stretchy.”

      “Gregory?  You are still at home?”

      “For a little while longer.  It’s earlier than you think, love.  Someone slept very hard last night and I guess your body’s ready for a little moving around after being so far under.”

      “I think, rather, it is that you were no longer with me and I could not remain in the peaceful state I was inhabiting.”

      “You say the sweetest things.  And look!  Breakfast!  Thought I’d sit with you and share, rather than shoving something down in the kitchen.”

Lestrade put the plate and mugs on the bedside table and helped Mycroft sit up in the bed.  Handing Mycroft his beverage, Lestrade began to eat and used the moment to secretly give his lover a visual once-over for any problems.

      “I am quite well, Gregory.”

      “Drat, here I was thinking I was being sneaky.”

      “I assumed; however, your actions were not as surreptitious as you might have hoped.”

      “Something I’ll have to work on.  Just wanted to make sure I hadn’t done anything during the night to set you back.  I have a feeling I was a little handsy and clingy.”

Lestrade used Mycroft opening his mouth to reply as an opportunity to pop in a small forkful of eggs and went back to eating, casually failing to acknowledge his actions.  Couples did that, it was a normal couple thing.  Give each other little bites and even drink out of each other’s mugs sometimes.  Normal couple stuff, no ulterior motive to be found anywhere… Of course, Mycroft’s narrowed eyes told him the artist wasn’t buying his nonchalance, but his lover chewed and swallowed his food without complaint, anyway.

      “You were _most_ affectionate during the night, if I remember correctly; however, not to the point of causing me any distress.  Quite the opposite, in fact.”

      “Good.  Hate to have to take Sherlock’s place on the sofa.”

      “That would be an unfortunate fate, especially for me, if Sherlock chose to take your place in the bed.”

      “He wriggles too, doesn’t he?”

      “Immeasurably.  We should likely purchase John some form of armored pyjamas for his future health and safety.”

Both men sniggered and Lestrade snuck his partner another forkful of eggs.

      “Gregory, is there a reason you are feeding me like an infant?”

      “Other than it’s fun?  No.  Thought it would be romantic, actually.  Sit in bed, give you a few nibbles… and I know you’re not keen on eating, so they’ve been small nibbles.  Mostly just to… well to be romantic, like I said.  Do stuff couples do when they’re having breakfast in bed.”

Lestrade crossed a toe to negate the lie, but it wasn’t a total lie, so he only crossed it a little.  What he wasn’t expecting was another tear to roll down Mycroft’s cheek.

      “Mycroft, are you ok?”

The artist sniffed mightily and wiped his cheek.  Ok?  He was very ok.  His Gregory was trying so valiantly to make him happy, as well as keep him healthy and well.  And he could not control, it seemed, how his body responded to that devotion.

      “Yes, I am.  It is just that… I am overcome, at times, from the love I feel for you and the joy I take from your actions.”

Lestrade leaned over and kissed his Mycroft, smiling widely as he drew back and began to attack a large piece of toast.

      “And I feel the same way.  My head starts spinning and then sort of shuts down because all I can think about is you.  We’re sort of pitiful, aren’t we?”

Another large smile that dragged a similar one from the artist who stole the final bite of Lestrade’s toast for himself, though it took a focused act of will to swallow it down.

      “The most pitiful inhabitants of this planet, by far.”

      “We’re lucky we found each other.  No one else would have us.”

      “Quite true.  Eternally, I feel blessed for my good fortune.”

      “Me too.”

Lestrade gave Mycroft another kiss, then made quick work of the rest of his breakfast and was happy Mycroft had, at least, another two small bites before he had to race out of the flat, laughing as he hit the foot of the stairs that John’s familiar figure was on the horizon walking towards something that was going to make him a very happy man.

__________

      “Ah, you are here.”

Sherlock had no idea why the sound of the knock on the door made his insides feel uncharacteristically… fluttery…. but he refused to give it any appreciable consideration.  He would also not give consideration to the fact that the ‘good morning’ kiss he received when John tugged at his shirt to get him to bend down tasted especially delicious.

      “A little later than I predicted, but, hopefully, my patient is just waking up.”

      “Mycroft has been awake for fifteen minutes and wasted that time by eating breakfast with Lestrade.”

      “And does eating breakfast actually mean eating?”

      “A small amount.  Lestrade told me to pass on the information that Mycroft consumed four bites of egg and a small amount of toast.”

      “Well, that’s something.  Not much, but every little bit helps.  Try to get him to have some lunch, too, if you can.  If not, Greg can probably manage to get something into him for dinner.  I’m going to set him up with a therapist in the next couple of days and they can start working on fixing that particular problem.”

      “Good.  You, however, do not have to worry about intake because I am making breakfast.”

      “You?”

      “I can cook.”

      “I don’t doubt that, I’m just surprised you’re willing to go through the effort.  I’d think that would be a job for Mycroft or Greg.”

      “And you would be correct for most circumstances; however, Lestrade said the gesture would be appreciated by you as a romantic one.”

The light finally went off in John’s head and he smiled broadly at the student.

      “And he’d be right.  It’s a very romantic gesture and an affectionate one, if I may be so bold.”

      “You… may.  Sit.  I will pour… something.”

John chuckled at Sherlock’s awkwardness and took his seat as ordered.  Having breakfast cooked for you… that was a definite signal and the fatigue he was feeling from working his shift was nicely fading into the background.

      “Thanks.  How was your night?”

      “Mercifully quiet.  Lestrade and my brother did not disturb me with any audible sounds of their lust.”

      “Well, that’s good, I guess.  I was more concerned with any problems you might have had sleeping.”

      “Why would I have any trouble sleeping?”

      “No particular reason.  It was just a busy day and it’s the start of a new phase of your life.  You really _are_ living with Greg now, instead of… just sleeping on his couch.  It wouldn’t have been strange if that had kept your mind busy so you’d have trouble sleeping.”

Sherlock thought a moment while he tried to figure out what he actually had to do to replicate what Lestrade had done to prepare breakfast.

      “I suppose there is merit to your reasoning, however, only for an average mind, which mine is most certainly not.”

      “No, not average at all.  Do you… can I give you a little help?”

John watched Sherlock stare at the few pots and pans in Lestrade’s cupboard and wondered if Sherlock had actually ever prepared food in his life.

      “What a ridiculous thought.  Cooking is simply a matter of chemistry, something for which I can certainly be termed an expert.”

      “Then why are you having a staring contest with Greg’s pots?”

      “Because I can win.”

      “Well, that’s a good reason.”

      “I thought so.”

      “I think that one there is going to lose first.”

John pointed to a wide, flat pan and nodded confidently.

      “Hmmm…”

      “Put him to work for being weak and lazy.”

      “That is a very good suggestion.”

Sherlock took down the pan and set it on the stovetop.

      “And what should be his work penalty?”

      “Frying up some sausages.  Maybe some eggs, too.  That’s going to show it who’s boss.”

      “I concur.”

      “And the toaster is looking at you smugly.  Needs to be taken down a peg.”

      “Scurrilous appliance.  I am entirely unsurprised as it belongs to Lestrade.” 

Sherlock pulled out the bread and haughtily deposited it into his enemy’s gaping maw.

      “That’s the ticket.  Don’t suppose you have any jam that might have offended you morally, do you?”

      “It’s likely.  Most of the items in this flat are morally offensive.”

      “Then we’re doing society a service by teaching it all a lesson it won’t forget.  The pan, sausages, eggs, toast and jam especially, since they have no respect whatsoever.  Oh, and the tea.”

      “Coffee.”

      “Alright, the coffee can have a lesson today and the tea can get his comeuppance later in the morning.”

      “That is an agreeable compromise.”

      “I’m nothing if not diplomatic.”

__________

With John’s completely not-helping help, Sherlock plated two edible plates of food and set them down on the kitchen table.

      “This looks great, Sherlock.  And… yes, it tastes great, too.”

      “Naturally.  Did you expect anything less?”

      “Oh no, not at all.  Maybe for dinner one night you can roast a nice chicken, sauté some vegetables… bake a little bread…”

John pretended not to notice Sherlock’s increasingly-widened eyes and made as many yummy noises as he could as he ate.

      “I… that would be incredibly simplistic.  I doubt, however, I would have time for such an undertaking.”

      “Yes, of course.  You’re right.  Oh well, that’s my loss.  I know you would, though… if you had the time.”

      “Certainly.  Perhaps when I am not so occupied with my invalid brother.”

      “I look forward to it.”

John hoped the local library was prepared for Sherlock descending on them demanding to be shown the cookbook section.

      “Until then, though… I have a few things I need to do today, like get some shoes that don’t turn my feet into some form of twisty tree root, but then we can do whatever you’d like.  Any ideas?”

 Actually, Sherlock did and the fact that Lestrade and Mycroft contributed to his list would not be shared with John.

      “The Natural History Museum and Science Museum are enjoyable and I am certain you have not been escorted through those locations by such a knowledgeable guide as myself.  It appears to be a pleasant day to stroll through the various gardens in the city, though at this time of year there is only the slimmest selection of vegetation to view.  I have made a list of the free films and performances that are available, though a portion of these are targeted for children.  I am told… I mean… there are a variety of eclectic shops that might strike our fancy.  An hour in a bookstore can be an enjoyable experience or we may bring with us reading material and find a warm location in which to read.  Then…”

      “Sherlock!  We’ve only got one day!  And, not even a full one since I have to be at work tonight. We’ve got until late morning, maybe early afternoon at best.  We’ll pick a few things on your list once I’ve got my errands done and leave the rest for another time.  Lots of other times, right?”

A question that Sherlock was happy to answer.

      “That is my plan.”

      “Which agrees with mine, so aren’t we lucky?  Why don’t you clean off the table while I go and check on Mycroft.  I actually sort of forgot why I stopped by in the first place; that’s how good the breakfast was.”

John noticed that Sherlock’s smiles were usually of the self-satisfied type, but sometimes, they were something different.  Sometimes, and he’d hadn’t seen many with Greg or Mycroft, Sherlock’s smiles were… well, happy was a stupid term, but that was what they were.  Happy, pleased, almost child-like, actually.  And John thought his… whatever Sherlock could be called… was all the more stunning for it.

      “If I must.”

      “You must.  Back in a moment.”

John finished the last of his coffee, rose from the table and walked to the bedroom door, knocking softly and waiting for Mycroft to give him the ok to come in.  Which came quickly.

      “Mycroft?  Good morning; how are you feeling today?”

John immediately began giving his patient a preliminary examination and had to admit he looked more rested than when he’d last seen him, so the artist must have gotten _some_ sleep during the night.

      “Acceptable, thank you, John.”

      “How’s the pain?”

Mycroft wondered if he should simply say evil or if catastrophically evil was a tad bit more appropriate.

      “Manageable.”

      “Which, for you, means miserable.  Did you take your medication this morning?”

      “Not as of yet.  I was hoping it might not be necessary.”

      “It’s necessary.  Pain just doesn’t hurt you physically, Mycroft, it hurts mentally.  It wears you down, drains you of energy, shortens your fuse and patience, sucks the fun out of things and people you enjoy and makes you less pleasant to be around _for_ the people you enjoy.  You’re not going to be able to live pain-free right now, but you don’t have to be in agony.  Take your medication exactly as directed and we’ll rethink the dosage as we go along.”

Mycroft sighed and retrieved his vial of pills from the bedside table, taking one while John watched.

      “Good.  It’s not weakness to take help when you need it, no matter what form that help takes.  Now, let’s have a look at you.”

John gave his patient a quick, but thorough examination and Mycroft wondered when the time would come that he wouldn’t have to have his body exposed to quite so many eyes.  It was becoming… uncomfortable.

      “Mycroft… am I upsetting you?”

The artist blinked sharply and looked at John, realizing he had let his thoughts play out visibly on his face and in his posture.  He was actually leaning away from John as if to flee from his touch.

      “Don’t be ridiculous.”

      “Please don’t lie to me, Mycroft.  I need honesty from you, even if it’s not pleasant.  I can’t stress enough how important that is and you have my word, my absolute word, that doctor-patient confidentiality is something I take very seriously.  Now tell me the truth – am I upsetting you with this exam.”

Mycroft hesitated a long moment before answering but finally did, though he was not able to meet John’s eye while doing so.

      “Yes.  It is becoming… unsettling to be… that is to say…”

      “It _is_ unsettling, isn’t it?  When someone is looking at you, all of you, and touching you, _all_ of you, with what seems like a cold and impersonal hand... it can be upsetting.  You feel exposed, a little like a piece of meat at the market that someone’s looking over to see if they want to buy…”

As soon as the words left John’s mouth, he wanted to bite his tongue and spit it out, but… it didn’t seem to be something that hadn’t already run through Mycroft’s mind if the small gleam of agreement in the artist’s eyes was to be believed.

      “It’s alright to feel that way, Mycroft.  A lot of people do and I understand it completely, especially with… all of the things I have to check with you.  I’m not offended and don’t think you’re being irrational or overly sensitive.  Your standard once-a-year check isn’t so much of a problem, but when you have to endure it over and over again… it _has_ to be difficult.  And… especially with what you went through that got you into my care in the first place.  Anytime you need me to, just ask and I’ll stop.  I won’t need to examine you as often once a few things sort themselves out, so look forward to that and don’t hesitate to tell me if you need a break or for me to leave you alone for awhile.  It’s fine, Mycroft, it really is.”

The relief in the artist’s eyes both gladdened and saddened John.  There were so many things Mycroft was having to go through right now and it occurred to John that he might need to have a little talk with Greg before Greg and Mycroft got back to normal in the bedroom department.  The PC was going to need to pay attention for any sign that Mycroft wasn’t comfortable with intimacy at the moment and be prepared to stop what he was doing and take the time instead to reassure his lover that he was always safe in their bed and had the right to say no.

      “Thank you, John.  I appreciate both your candor and your understanding.  This has never been an issue for me it is simply that… no, it is no matter.  Thank you, this has been very helpful.”

      “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about something?”

      “Not at this time, no.  Perhaps another day?”

      “Sure.  And Mycroft, if you ever want to talk, even just to ask a question, get in touch and I’ll make time for you.”

John decided to set aside the rest of his examination since he didn’t want to distress Mycroft any further.  This was his first day in his new home and the day should be as easy for him as possible.  And, from what he had seen, there wasn’t any change from last night, so there shouldn’t be any cause for worry.  Resisting the urge to pat Mycroft on the shoulder or offer some other physical gesture of comfort, John smiled and took a step back to ease any stress his proximity might be causing.

      “Sherlock and I are going out for a few hours, is that alright with you?”

      “That sounds delightful.  I know that Sherlock is greatly looking forward to whatever adventures you might encounter.”

      “Well, it _can_ get a little heated when I shop for shoes.  Every time I find a pair I like, some other bastard wants it to and… well, I won’t say blood has been shed, but I carry a cloth in my pocket in case of a cleaning emergency.”

      “You may rest assured that Sherlock will defend your footwear as forcefully as your honor.”

      “Good to know.  Got your art supplies?”

Not that John had to ask because he’d been having to avoid Mycroft’s box o’ art while he was conducting his examination.

      “I do and I feel as if a cool breeze has blown through my parched and dusty soul knowing they are within reach.  Gregory has promised that he will work this evening on devising a method by which I might paint.  My easel, unfortunately, will not easily perch on the bed.”

      “Can we… let’s see.”

John went to the closet and drew down several blankets, as well as two sets of sheets and set them on Mycroft’s legs.

      “Could you use that to prop up a canvas?  Oh, hold on a minute.”

John lifted up the pile of bedding and extracted one of the sheets, unfolding it so it was only doubled over and lay it across Mycroft’s legs before replacing the stack of blankets.

      “Greg won’t mind if we used one of his raggedy sheets as a dropcloth.”

The slight flinch at the word ‘dropcloth’ puzzled John until he remembered what Mycroft had arrived at the A&E wearing.

      “I’m sure your sadly unattractive housemate is going to find a better solution, but maybe this would work for today if you wanted to get your hand back in.  I know Sherlock and I brought a few blank canvasses with us when we relocated your things and there’s a small one that would sit easily right here, I think.  That’s if you think you’ve got the energy…

      ‘I do.  I think this situation will work quite agreeably for a small piece.  If you would spare me a moment or two to help prepare a few things I believe I have the course of my day charted.”

      “I’m at your service; just tell me what to do.”

What to do involved a look at the ritual of Mycroft preparing himself for his work and, at John’s insistence, a trip to the loo so that Mycroft wouldn’t have to make an unassisted jaunt through the house.  Actually, if Sherlock wasn’t already complaining about leaving, John would have liked to stay awhile to watch his patient work on the small canvas he’d taken out of the closet and propped up on Mycroft’s legs.  Already he could see a change in Mycroft’s demeanor as his hands began to touch the items in the nest of supplies they’d arranged on the bed and that change was a very good one.  An extremely relief-inducing one because only a blind person could miss that the artist needed this as much as he did the air he breathed and he’d suffered greatly missing the pieces of his soul that only his art could reach.

      “I wish there was a phone in here, but at least it’s not too many steps if you need one.  I know Greg left his contact information next to it and I put mine there, too, so it’s all in one place.  If anything happens while we’re gone, Mycroft, like you have a bad fall taking a walk to the kitchen to refill your water, call for an ambulance.  Don’t worry about trying to reach me or Greg, just get help quickly.  But, if possible, don’t take a walk to the kitchen.  It’s further than I’m happy with you walking alone, so I’ll just put a few glasses of water in here and that won’t even be a worry for you.”

      “Thank you again, John, but that is not necessary.  In truth, I believe I shall not move from this spot for quite some time.  I have wanted to be here for so long that I cannot bear the thought of being anywhere else.”

John had a truly stupid joke poised to fly, but realized he was already alone in the room.  Mycroft had picked up a brush, loaded it with paint and was making the first stroke to create a new piece.  There wasn’t a bit of his patient’s attention that was devoted to anything but the small universe that existed only as far as his brush could reach.  Quietly walking out the bedroom and laughing at Sherlock’s overly-dramatic ‘I’m bored’ position on the couch, John nodded the student towards door and shut it quietly after they had left the flat.

      “Let me guess, Mycroft has gone into his fugue state where nothing exists but his craft supplies.”

      “Mycroft has dived into his own personal paradise, something few of us are ever lucky enough to find.  It’s not something to scorn, Sherlock.  It’s something to aspire to.”

Sherlock’s snort startled a pigeon taking a stroll next to them and John burst out laughing, laughing harder when Sherlock’s face lit up with a very sheepish grin.

      “Sherlock Holmes, Scourge of Pigeons!”

      “It is a cross I am unfortunately tasked to bear.”

      “Do they at least try to make offerings to gain favor so you don’t send them to Great Pigeon Heaven?”

      “No.  They are both cowardly and stupid.  Not so much as a pilfered wallet appears on my doorstep.”

      “Then good for you smiting them with your mighty dragon breath.”

      “In a righteous world, one receives what one deserves, pigeon or not.”

__________

Lestrade gave himself a mental pat on the back for a good day’s work and another that things had gotten mostly back to normal from a work perspective.  The officers he’d had trouble with when they found out about Mycroft had given him little bits of trouble here and there for awhile, but that had faded quickly when they realized that he would give them bits of trouble back and the fact he had a male lover hadn’t made him any different than he was before they learned about his artist.  They still didn’t like it, but he didn’t have to worry about a nasty note in his locker or a potential dust up off the clock anymore and that was fine with him.  He was focusing on the job and giving it his all, just as he’d always done and some days it might not seem like it made any difference to the people he served, but other days, he could really see how he was helping.  Now, he got to go home and spend the evening with his Mycroft, talk about their day, laugh and relax…it was amazing how much that simple thing was pulling him out the exit as strongly as a rope tied around his waist and attached to a lorry heading towards his flat.

He was only a few steps from the door when Lestrade heard his name called and wasn’t sure if he should smile or look contrite when he turned to find a familiar and authoritarian figure beckoning him into an office he hadn’t entered since he asked for his altered schedule.

      “Have a seat, Lestrade.”

      “Yes, sir.  Is… is everything alright, sir?”

      “That’s actually what I wanted to ask you.”

      “Have I… I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?  I promised I wouldn’t and I’ve kept that promise as best as…”

      “Calm down, son.  You’re performance has been exemplary and I know it hasn’t been easy for you.  I’m just checking to see how you’re holding up otherwise.  It’s hard enough to have this job, let alone having to care for someone at home at the same time.”

      “Oh… yeah, it’s definitely not easy.  But it’s worth it.  Just like being a policeman.  You know you’ve made a difference and that makes the hard days easier to take, even when they wear you out.  But we actually brought Mycroft home last night, which is… I didn’t think it would happen this soon, but he’s home now and that’s going to make a big difference with his recovery.  He still needs a lot of help, but I bet that it won’t be much longer and he won’t need me and Sherlock with him all the time.  He’s a fighter, the strongest person I know, so… no, it won’t be long and then he’ll be back on his little patch of ground with his easel.”

      “And that’s truly what he wants to do for his living?”

      “He loves it.  Maybe not doing sketches for people the way he does, but his art really _is_ his life.  You should see him when he’s working on a painting, it’s like nothing you can imagine.  When he’s well we’re going to start approaching some galleries to see if they’ll show his work.  No one sees his best pieces and it’s time people had the chance to see what he can do.  Maybe he’ll sell a few, maybe he won’t, but that doesn’t matter.  I’d just like it if he was appreciated for his talent.”

      “I can understand that and it’s good that you support him.  A lot of people don’t consider art or music something to build a life around.  They’re not proper work, if you know what I mean.”

      “I do, but that’s not the way I see it and anyone who knew how much of himself he puts into his art would either.”

      “And what about you?”

      “Sir?”

      “It sounds like your Mycroft has found his purpose in life.  Have you?”

      “I’m… I’m not considering running off and becoming an artist if that’s what you’re worried about, sir.  I can’t even draw a tree!”

The older man laughed and tried to remember when he was this young.

      “I’m more concerned that you’re set on a policeman’s life.”

      “There’s nothing to be concerned about there.   I love this job.  It’s challenging, exciting… yeah, it’s difficult and sometimes thankless, but I can’t picture myself wanting to do anything else.  And one day… no, it doesn’t matter.  I’m happy, sir, I really am.”

      “But you wanted to say something.  Let’s hear it.”

      “It was silly, sir.  Nothing to pay attention to.”

      “But notice that I am.  Don’t make me order you, Lestrade.”

Lestrade hoped the heat on his face wasn’t actually visible as a big mass of pulsing red.

      “Well… it’s my goal to be a detective someday.  What they do, I’m good at – solving problems and puzzles, thinking through things, making sense of things… I know you’ve got to be determined and hard-working and I am.  I’m patient, careful and willing to take responsibility. I notice details and when they don’t fit the rest of the picture.  I’m pretty creative, too, and although I may not be the most educated man in the world, I can take all sorts of information and find patterns in it, make meaning of it and put it to use for me.  I’d be a good detective, I think, so I’m learning everything I can, watching the detectives when they work and asking them questions.  One day that’s going to be me… well, I hope it is.”

      “Interesting.”

      “Good interesting or bad interesting?  Ok, that was not something I probably should have asked.”

      “Detectives also need to confidence, Lestrade.”

      “I’ve got lots of confidence, sir, but I’m also smart enough to know that when you’re talking to your superior officer it’s not a good idea to be cheeky.”

Young, but definitely not stupid.

      “True.  And you’re right about what it takes to serve as a detective.  How long do you think it’s going to be before your partner, if that’s the correct term, is back on his feet?  You said it won’t be long, but could you narrow that down?”

      “Not easily.  I’d have to talk to John about it and…”      

      “John?”

      “Mycroft’s doctor.  We’re actually lucky because John’s keeping an eye on Mycroft even though we brought him home from hospital.  He came with us last to my flat night and stopped in again this morning.”

      “That’s not the usual way it goes.”

      “No, but it helps that he’s seeing Mycroft’s brother.  They met while Mycroft was hospitalized and hit it off.”

      “Once in awhile you get a piece of luck in this life.  Well, you talk to this John and report back to me.  If you want a better idea if detective work is right for you, I can attach you to CID for a few weeks so you can get the proper story.”

Lestrade hoped he could live without oxygen because his lungs didn’t seem to have any interest in breathing.

      “You… you could?  You would?”

      “Part of _my_ job is seeing officers are posted where we can get the most out of them and if that’s where your skills and interests lie, then I’m not doing my job if I’m not trying to get you there.  I’ll talk to a few people and set things in motion.  But Lestrade, I expect you impress and I _will_ be receiving a report on how you conducted yourself.”

      “I will, sir.  Absolutely, you won’t regret this decision.  Not one bit.”

      “I’d better not.  Alright, Lestrade, you’re dismissed.”

Lestrade wanted to salute or bow or kneel or something, but opted for fleeing like a frightened squirrel.  But it was a squirrel with a massive nut in its grasp.

__________

John and Sherlock returned to the flat in the very early afternoon with John having spent the previous hour fighting the urge to phone in with a bad case of Ebola and taking the night off from work.  It was the best day in… he couldn’t remember.  A little window shopping, a little real shopping, strolling through the Natural History museum listening to Sherlock narrate their visit, sometimes to an audience that gathered to hear the details about what they were viewing.  A quick stop for tea that was perfect for enjoying in the sunshine that just kept the chill on the correct side of comfortable and an oddly-pleasurable few minutes at the library so Sherlock could take out a few books.  If they could only settle on the sofa, watch a little telly and see where things went from there, but that wasn’t meant to be.  Damn his need to eat, have a place to live and stay clothed!

      “This has been a lot of fun, Sherlock.  Thanks for coming with me.”

      “It was an enjoyable day, which is somewhat surprising since it was spent in completely useless pursuits.”

      “Sometimes useless has its uses.”

      “That is distressingly philosophical.”

      “Thank you.  And I’d like to go back to the museum soon to see the rest.  You’re an amazing guide.”

      “Yes, I am.  It shall be the same for the Science Museum, though they continue to refuse to amend several informational placards that grossly maul basic scientific concepts and theories.”

      “I look forward to it.  Let me take a quick check of your brother and I’ll be going.  I’m sure you’re tired of watching me yawn my way through the day.”

      “It gave me the opportunity to study your dentition.”

      “Oh good.”

Sherlock unlocked the door and set his books on the kitchen table, while John peeked his head in the bedroom to find Mycroft still engrossed in his work, but swimming to the surface of his mind enough to smile at the doctor who took the opportunity to refill the now-empty glass of water and hand the artist another pain pill.

      “Ah, John.  Yes, I had lost track of time.”

      “And I’m not going to complain.  That looks… I don’t have the right word to describe how amazing that is.”

The doctor stared at the small scene of a London street at night, lit only by street lamps and the glow of the moon and stars and wished that he had a thousandth of Mycroft’s talent.

      “You are too kind.  This… my and Gregory’s first evening together was naught but a walk, however, it was one of the most profound experiences of my life.  I shall represent that night many times over the years, I have no doubt, however, this small, intimate piece shall likely come closer to what I felt that night than anything I might render on a larger scale.”

That’s the word John was looking for – love.  There wasn’t a person in the picture, but the whole piece radiated a sense of love and fulfillment that it shouldn’t since it was just buildings and sidewalks.  There was a warmth and contentment in the composition that he was sure could be expressed in proper artistic terms, but he had no idea what those were, so he’d stick with his ignorant vocabulary and say it was a pure expression of love and leave it at that.  

      “It’s something to treasure, that’s for certain.  When you’re famous and people are knocking down your door to buy your work, don’t sell that one, ok?”

Mycroft still found it very difficult to accept praise for his talent, even knowing it was honestly given, but he was learning to take pleasure from the admiring words and it was another layer of joy to this portion of his life.  He greatly cherished the knowledge that his work was appreciated and by people of quality like Gregory and John.

      “I shall not, you have my word.  Now, are you retiring for the day?”

      “Yeah, that’s the hardest part of working nights – even if you’re exhausted, it’s hard to look at the sun and think it’s time to go to bed.”

      “Understandable, but I am happy you and Sherlock enjoyed at least a few hours of recreation.”

      “We did, we had a very nice time.  I’m looking forward to the day we can actually spend the whole day doing something, but I won’t look down on even a few hours like these.”

      “I am most pleased.  I shall set aside a portion of my daily earnings to purchase Sherlock’s wedding suit.”

      “And now I’m leaving.  I probably won’t stop in tomorrow because I have a lot of paperwork to do, but I’ll be here the day after to see how you’re doing.  Call if you need anything, alright?”

      “I shall.  Thank you, John.  Not only for your diligence on my behalf but for your treatment of Sherlock.  I know Gregory and I tease, however, we are both very happy Sherlock has met a man of character and integrity.  That is more important to us than you might realize.”

John _did_ understand, though.  Not out of arrogance, but from the knowledge that with Sherlock’s habits, _previous_ habits if the git knew what was good for him, and his personality, he could have had a very rough go of it if he’d decided to try his hand at romance.  He might not be the best person to date Sherlock, but he certainly wasn’t the worst.

      “I appreciate that.  Now, I’m going to shag your brother into the floor, drink Greg’s booze and steal the silver before I leave.  Have a good day.”

John gave his best impression of a vaudeville villain and stalked out the door, leaving Mycroft chuckling at the younger man.  And he chuckled again a few minutes later when Sherlock stormed in demanding to know if he wanted tea because John made him promise to ask.

      “If your heart is charitable enough to prepare it, then yes.  I would greatly appreciate a cup.”

Sherlock sighed grandly and stormed back out, returning later with tea for both of them and a plate of biscuits with a surprisingly robust selection of offerings.

      “You should have prepared for yourself something more filling if you are this hungry, Sherlock.”

      “Sugary products appear to do more to stimulate your desire to eat than anything else and I will not be chided by John or Lestrade for failing to address your reluctance to feed.”

Mycroft nearly dropped his tea both from the bolt of shame at Sherlock’s words and also from the clear statement of concern, though his brother was futilely attempting to camouflage it.

      “Sherlock…”

      “I am certain there is some textbook’s worth of psychological blather at the root of the situation and I would rather not be the one to dig that root from the ground; however, since I cannot shut off my hearing and do not think I have not tried in preparation of living here with you and Lestrade, if you choose to talk about something, I will have no choice but to listen.  That time does not have to be now, but you should be aware that your personal prattle cannot, unfortunately, fall on deaf ears.”

And concealing his concern even more poorly than before.  Mycroft tried very hard, very, very hard not to cry, but a tear slid down his cheek nonetheless, which his brother pointedly refused to acknowledge.

      “I will try not to assault you with my hysteria and wailing too often.”

      “I should hope not.  You will now eat this biscuit to keep your mouth from conversing with me further.”

Sherlock shoved a large biscuit into Mycroft’s mouth and used his peripheral vision to make sure his brother ate it and didn’t spit it behind his pillow.

      “And I see you have again taken up your brushes.  Did Lestrade purchase for you a paint-by-number book or did you steal a coloring plate from a child who stopped by to ask about a missing cat?”

Mycroft swallowed his biscuit with more ease than he would have predicted and chased it with a sip of Sherlock’s stomach-dissolving tea.

      “The muse graced me with its presence and I could not ignore the call.”

      “It is not… horrendous.”

      “From you, that is high praise.”

      “No, it is the barest minimum of approval, but it is more than your works are usually worth.  That John and Lestrade worship them like sacred idols astounds me.  John insisted, despite my very logical argument against the action, to festoon the walls of this hovel with examples of your work, which, needless to say, compounds my daily torment immeasurably.”

      “It is something that astounds me, also, however, Gregory was delighted to find his residence decorated in that manner.”

      “That is because he lacks any semblance of taste or aesthetic sophistication.”

      “Yes, that is surely the case.  And how great a burden it must be for you to wear his jacket when you have an assignation with John for it, as you argue, surely does nothing to enhance your aesthetic appeal.”

      “It is warm.”

      “Gregory has warmer jackets you could borrow, though they are not cut in quite the same fetching manner.”

Another biscuit was shoved into Mycroft’s mouth and Sherlock took two for himself, wondering how many hours it would be before Lestrade returned home to take the brunt of his brother’s attempts at wit.

__________

Lestrade suffered Sherlock’s rolled eyes when he walked into the flat and laughed as the student barreled past him to make his escape to his laboratory before he became contaminated by domestic undertakings.  Quickly setting down his surprise, the PC picked up two wine glasses for the hopefully-drinkable non-alcoholic wine he’d picked up cheaply, then knocked carefully on the bedroom door.  Mycroft’s slightly-confused ‘hello?’ started him laughing a second time.

      “I guess it’s silly to knock, but I’d hate to stroll in and you’re showing yourself a good time and don’t want to be disturbed.”

The bloom of warmth in Mycroft’s chest did more to stave off the chill than any number of blankets.

      “I would only be distressed if you did not subsequently begin to participate.  Welcome home, my dear.  I… Gregory, what are you carrying?”

      “Glasses and safe-to-drink wine.  Well, safe being defined by the fact there’s no alcohol in it, and in no way tied to the way it tastes, which could easily be lethal, but what’s life without adventure?”

The PC smiled widely and sat on the bed, pouring a small amount of wine into one of the glasses to taste, pronouncing it on par with sugarless grape juice, but certainly not toxic.  Pouring out a glass for Mycroft, Lestrade took time then to look at what Mycroft had been working on and felt his jaw drop in amazement.

      “That’s beautiful.  It’s more than beautiful, it’s… enchanting.  I mean that as in it casts a spell, too, not just that it’s… it takes my breath away.”

Mycroft sipped his drink, only wincing slightly as it hit his taste buds, and let his lover’s delight wash over him like a long, slow, spring rain.

      “I am pleased you like it.  You, in many ways, were its inspiration.”

      “Me?  There’s no way I could inspire something like this.”

      “John crafted for me a method to work with a small canvas and the moment I began to paint my mind happily opened the door to my fondest memories and allowed me to stroll again through the city as we did during our first evening together.  It was a night I did not expect after Sherlock’s behavior and certainly a night I did not believe I deserved, but you gave it to me nonetheless and the joy I felt… the hope that sprung when I believed I could never again hope… yes, this is surely an ode to that night and your role in giving to me a life about which I had long ago ceased to dream.”

Lestrade leaned over and kissed his lover, savoring the taste of someone who loved him more deeply than he ever thought a person could love another.  And, though he didn’t have the words to express it as eloquently, he felt exactly the same way.

      “And I love you, Mycroft.  With everything in me, I love you and if this painting came from that love, then I’m humbled, because that is insanely beautiful. And guess what…  no, don’t just look at me, ask me what.”

      “Very well.  What?”

      “Wait and see.”

Lestrade set down his wine and went to get his surprise, carrying it back to the bedroom, moving John’s blanket fort and carefully setting Mycroft’s painting on his new easel.

      “Tah dah!”

The artist stared at the colorful contrivance on the bed and wasn’t certain how to frame his response.

      “It is… has this been painted?”

      “Yep.  Well, sort of.  Charlie said his kids had more fun painting this than the paper they put on it.  I remembered Charlie mentioning getting a little easel for his kids one Christmas and thought that might work for you.  I checked a few shops on my meal break and… well, they’re not cheap when you buy them new, so I asked Charlie if he knew anyone who might want to get rid of one and he said _his_ kids didn’t use theirs anymore and I could have it for free, since it was just taking up room in the kids’ closet.  I stopped by his flat after work and took a look at it and… I think it should work.  It’s short, just about the right size when you’re sitting up in bed and you can sit your canvas on the little tray they have for the kiddies to put their paints or crayons or snacks.  I may have to do something to secure your canvas a little better but… well, do you think this’ll do?”

Mycroft looked at the child’s easel and felt that surge of emotion that threated again to send tears down his cheeks.  It was a horrid thing, but absolutely perfect.  Only his Gregory could pull a solution out of the ether so quickly.

      “It is magnificent, Gregory.  And sized to hold quite a substantial canvas.  This is absolutely unbelievable, my dear.  Your skills at problem-solving dazzle my mind.”

      “Yes!  I’m so happy, Mycroft.  I know you want to paint and this, this little beauty is just the tip of the iceberg.  You don’t know how happy I am this is going to work for you.  Do you have enough supplies?  If you make a list for me, I’ll…”

This time it was Mycroft to instigate the kiss that shared more fully his affection than his words possibly could.

      “I have what I need for now, I believe.”

      “You’ll tell me when you need more, right?  I want you to, ok?  Money is tight, but there’s enough for necessities and I consider your art supplies a necessity.  I really do, so please tell me when you need something.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded because saying anything right now was very difficult with the lump in his throat.  He had lived so long with Sherlock’s words in his ear that for someone to consider his work not only enjoyable but _important_ … it was a heady thing.

      “Good.  So, my Mycroft had a good day and… I may have had one of my own, so aren’t we cute?”

Lestrade picture-perfect smugly-pleased smile made Mycroft’s stomach twitch with pleasure and he wished the option of dancing was on the table for he suspected his lover’s news was very good indeed.

      “Do tell.  You have my undivided attention.”

      “Well, know how I told you my Inspector was keeping an eye on me?  He called me into his office today for a chat, just to see how I was doing and we started talking and… I told him how I wanted to be a detective someday.  I didn’t mean to, it just sort of came up and I told him why I thought I’d be good at it and he said… once you’re a little better, he’s going to give me a CID attachment for a few weeks to see if that’s really the sort of thing I want and get a little experience doing that sort of thing.”

Mycroft blinked once and then several times more and Lestrade hoped he hadn’t broken the artist’s brain.

      “You shall be able to be a detective?”

      “Only for a little while, but it’s a good opportunity.  When a permanent position opens, I’ll apply and I won’t just be Patrolboy Greg Lestrade, but I’ll have some experience on my record and I’ll have worked with some of the lads and they’ll know that I can do the job and do it well.  I’ll have references I can use, too, and I know my Inspector is going to get a full report and he’ll vouch for me, as well.”

      “And… do positions open frequently.”

      “Not as often as I’d like, but they do and I’ll have more of a foot in the door than someone who didn’t get this chance.  It’s not unique, a number of the lads have done a bit of time with CID, but I can only think of a few who thought the job might be something they’d want to do permanently.  It’s a different type of policing and it’s not for everyone.  It’s for _me_ , though, and this is very good first step.”

      “Gregory… I am… I am so incredibly proud of you.  I am certain your superior would not have given you this opportunity if he did not have full faith you would perform admirably in the role.”

      “Thanks.  And, I think that, too.  He could have just nodded and said, ‘oh, that’s nice’ and left things at that, but he didn’t.  I’m… I’m really excited, actually.”

And he was, that much Mycroft could easily see.  His lover was glowing with excitement he, himself, could not contain his satisfaction from knowing his Gregory’s skills were gaining the notice they deserved.

      “And well you should be.  This is… I offer you my most sincere congratulations for his honor and that is truly what I take this to be.  You are being honored for your capabilities and for what your superior acknowledges is the potential for a bright future.  I could not be happier for you, Gregory… I simply could not.”

Lestrade knew he was grinning ear to ear like a kid, but he didn’t care.  His artist was home and able to paint, _he_ was actually seeing his career dream starting to come to life, he was in love and was loved in return.  Life could certainly serve up the horror and misery, but sometimes, it gave you something far more wonderful instead.

      “I was thinking, too… it could be some time before a detective position opens and there’s no guarantee I’d get it, there’s a lot of competition for those, but in the meantime… I was thinking about taking the exams to get my name on the promotions list.  They start looking around to move someone up to sergeant, at least my name is one they can consider.”

      “Gregory… such ambition.”

      “Like it?”

      “I do.”

      “Think it’s sexy?”

      “Most certainly.”

      “Want to cuddle a little with your sexy, ambitious cop and let me cuddle with my sexy, talented artist?”

      “Wine, lovely music on the radio and the rapture of two bodies sharing soft touches… at least so far as my comfortable bedwear shall allow?”

      “You summed it up perfectly.”

      “Then that is something I very much want.”

      “Then that’s what you’ll have.  Anything for you, Mycroft.”

      “And I offer you the same.”

      “We’re going to be one of those old couples that makes all the young people sick because we’re kissing in the park, aren’t we.”

      “Most assuredly.  And I shall exult in every moment of it.”


	30. Chapter 30

Soft touches… Mycroft watched Lestrade sleep and marveled that he could still feel his lover’s hands on his skin.  So gentle and tender, yet when he desired it and made his wishes known, his lover was happy to accommodate with an aggressive, rougher approach which was positively glorious when he hungered in that manner.  Whatever his needs, Gregory gladly satisfied them and in the most pleasurable ways imaginable.  Tonight he had needed gentle and his dear Gregory had been achingly gentle, caressing his skin softly and carefully as they talked long into the night about nothing of substance, though the lightness of the conversation was something in which he took great comfort.  It was of tremendous relief to simply set aside the heavier, darker sections of his consciousness and delight in the simple, uncomplicated and enjoyable.  One day he would be able to give his Gregory more than the touch of lips and fingers, but for now, this was enough.  And it was _also_ of great comfort that his lover felt the same.

And now, he had a day ahead of him free from nurses, doctors and other medical practitioners and that day offered him a more inviting view than the white walls of a hospital room.  It would be a day in his home with the man he loved and every chance to take his brushes in hand and settle into the bliss that had consumed him when he had passed a similar day yesterday.  His paints, his brushes, his Gregory… all of which he thought he had lost when he made his _agreement_ to earn the money Sherlock needed.  Seven days… the likelihood of returning from that experience at all was slim and to emerge with the possibility of recovering fully functional was nil.  He knew that, he knew it well, but there had been no option besides leaving his brother in the clutches of villains who would show him no mercy.  And Sherlock _deserved_ mercy… he had done nothing wrong in life besides his petty insults and childish arrogance.  Unlike him.  His trail of sins was as long as the tracks for the Trans-Siberian Railway and what he suffered for them would never be enough to wash clean his past, however… there were moments where the man at his side almost made him believe it might be a possible thing.  And that man was now looking at him with eyes that no amount of talent could ever render in all their beauty.

      “Someone’s got something on his mind.”

      “Good morning to you, too.  And do tell me how you ascertained my mental status, my dear.”

      “It’s a look you get.  Something with the lips and nose.  And what you’re thinking about isn’t good, I know that, too.  It’s a specific variation on your ‘I’ve got something on my mind’ look.”

      “You are quite observant, my dear.  Not that you are necessarily correct, but I am impressed by your dedication to cataloging my expressions.”

      “Putting my detective skills to work.  So, are you going to tell me what you were thinking about?”

      “In truth, it was nothing of consequence.  Merely a rumination on these past days and the euphoria of the situation in which I now find myself.”

      “There was something else in there, though.  That wasn’t a euphoric look.  I know that one, too.  One of my favorite, actually.”

      “I assume you are referring to what is vulgarly termed my sex face.”

      “I’m referring to what I happily call your _art_ face.  Your sex face isn’t bad, though.  Another one of my favorites.”

Mycroft blinked back his surprise and made a promise to himself never to underestimate his partner for any reason.

      “Now, do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

The artist sighed and lifted Lestrade’s hand to place a small kiss on his palm.

      “At this time, is it permissible to say no?”

      “It’s always permissible to say no, Mycroft.  That doesn’t mean I’ll leave things alone forever, but I understand that you might not want to talk about something right at that moment.  I’m going to believe that we’ll have a chance to talk another time, though.  That you’ll trust me enough to tell me what’s on your mind and let me help if I can.”

Never, _ever_ underestimate his Gregory.  The man was exceptional…

      “I agree to your terms.  And there is no person on Earth who owns my trust as fully as do you.  With you I experience a security that is unique in my life and you cannot know, for I cannot properly describe, how I value having this in my life.”

Lestrade shifted carefully and laid a string of kisses along Mycroft’s pale shoulder.

      “That’s important to me, Mycroft.  I want you to always feel safe with me and if you don’t, I want you to tell me so we can talk about it and find out what the problem is.  Now, how about something to get the blood flowing?  Good, hot cup of caffeine to start the day.”

      “That is a marvelous suggestion.  May I be of assistance?”

      “Hmmm… how about for the second cup.  After you’ve had your pain medication.”

      “Gregory…”

      “How bad is your knee right now?”

Monstrous, but that was immaterial.

      “There is some discomfort.  It is, however, inconsequential.”

Lestrade reached over and pinched Mycroft’s cheek.

      “Ooh, look at that cute little lying face.  Mycroft… you’ve got to tell me the truth about how you feel.  I know you hurt and as strange as it is to say, that’s normal.  Please be honest with me, love, so there’s no chance I help you do something that ends up causing you more pain and damage.  If you’d like, I’ll back up your brave face when Sherlock’s around and maybe even John, but when it’s just us, let me know the truth so I can take care of you as best I can.  You take your pill and I’ll start the coffee.  Then you can help me take a hot shower, how does that sound?”

Much like he had ascended into heaven to receive its blessings.

      “Incomparable.”

      “Then get that pill inside you so I won’t have to worry about your leg giving out because you’re in agony.  I’ll be back in a minute.”

Lestrade gave his artist a quick peck on the cheek and hopped out of bed, donning a pair of drawstring trousers before leaving the room.  Mycroft watched him go and happily let his eyes linger on his lover’s backside, which even the loose garment failed to conceal.  Such a well-formed figure… he would be an absolutely joy to paint.  A whole series of pieces in a grand diversity of poses.  The first, perhaps, a full-body portrait from the back so his lovely posterior was displayed prominently it its breathtaking glory…

__________

Lestrade moved quietly towards the kitchen until he realized that Sherlock was already awake and at the kitchen table doing… something.

      “What the fuck are you doing?”

      “An experiment.”

      “At the table?”

      “This is the only surface of appreciable size in this doll’s house.”

      “We eat on this table, you know.”

      “And how is that relevant?”

      “Poison.  I think poison is very relevant.”

      “Nothing I am doing can be considered toxic to humans.  Under normal circumstances.”

      “Fantastic.  Clean up when you’re done, ok?  I’d hate any not-normal circumstance to pop up and be the end of us all.  I’m making coffee; do you want a cup?”

      “No.  Your coffee is deplorable.”

      “Less for me to make, then.  What do you have planned for the day?  I’m not working, so I’ll have an eye on Mycroft and you can do whatever you’d like with the time.  You’re welcome to spend it with us, though we won’t be doing anything very active.  I suspect Mycroft will want to paint all day and I’ll probably just read and keep him company.  Bring a book and join us; we’d be happy for it.”

      “I doubt there is a more boring way to spend a day than what you have described.  If there is, it is probably lethal to those who experience it.”

      “Looks like Mycroft and I are spending the day alone, then.  Going to take John out for the morning, instead?”

      “I am considering that option, yes.”

      “Any ideas on what you’re going do?”

      “For recreation, no.  However, we will visit Mrs. Hudson as she has requested.  John has also reminded me that there has been no notification of address change so our mail is still arriving at Baker Street.  I shall collect that, also.”

      “Then go fill out the form to make the address change this morning, you lazy thing.  You should probably do that, too, for your school records.  It’s not really the best date activity, but you should be able to get it done quickly and more onto other things.

      “Boring.”

      “Sometimes things are, but you still have to do them.  I’m going to ask Mycroft if he needs any supplies and if I give you a list, could you stop by an art shop and buy what he needs?  I know it’s asking a lot of you…”

      “A tremendous amount.”

      “… a tremendous amount of you, but in exchange, I’ll let you know my favorite place for Thai.  My favorite, _cheap_ , place for Thai.”

      “John has mentioned he is fond of Thai food.”

      “Do we have a deal?”

      “We do.”

      “Good.  Nice doing business with you, Sherlock.”

      “I plan on leaving to collect John when I have finished my work.  Have Mycroft’s list available, because I have no intention on waiting.  And failure on your part will not obviate your payment for my services.”

      “You’re the most compassionate man alive.”

      “Ridiculous.  There are surely one or two who rank higher than do I.”

      “And they’re in monasteries.”

      “Where they choose to live is not my concern.”

__________

It took a little gentle persuasion, but Lestrade finally coaxed his lover into preparing a list of supplies he required for his work.  It was a little like pulling teeth, because the artist fretted greatly over every bit of the cost, but the PC was ultimately able to hand Sherlock a fairly substantial list and passed him the cash to pay for it.

      “Make sure I get back anything you don’t spend, alright?  This is basically all we have until I’m paid again.”

      “Then you should not be spending it on crayons.”

      “This is as vital to Mycroft right now as his pain medication, so what he needs he’s going to get.  I’ve got word out to some of my mates that I’m looking for a little off-the-record work and when I find something that works for me money won’t be so tight.  But, for now, it’s going to be necessities only.”

      “And, of course, anything Mycroft wants automatically becomes a necessity.”

Lestrade was about to launch a scathing reply at Sherlock, but something in the student’s expression and tone of voice made him stop.  If he thought about it, which he really hadn’t, this was a major upheaval for Sherlock.  He had been the focus of Mycroft’s attention, the sole focus, all their life and that wasn’t true anymore.  He was the one who had been considered important and special and now the situation was different.  Sherlock probably had no idea how he fit into this new household that, at first, really didn’t seem to have a place for him and it wasn’t surprising that he might react poorly from time to time.  Maybe there was something Lestrade could do about it though…

      “Come here.”

The PC waved the younger man over to the kitchen table and Sherlock watched as Lestrade pulled out a small notebook from a drawer.

      “Take a look.”

Lestrade opened the notebook to a specific page and set it down in front of the student, who snorted as he picked it back up to read the information.  When he actually focused his attention on the page, Sherlock noticed first the word ‘BUDGET’ written in large letters across the top.  The second thing he observed was that the figure listed next to ‘Wages’ was not quite as pathetic as he had believed.  It was not a princely amount, but not as meager as he had assumed for Lestrade’s profession and position.  However, the basic cost for rent made him gulp.  For this hovel?  In this area?  He had thought the rent in Baker Street was ridiculously high for their flat, but now he realized exactly how little they had been paying.  Next were the standard household expenses and after ‘Clothing’ was an ‘x3,’ which startled the young man because, unless x3 was a brand Lestrade preferred, the implication was… not as significant as the line item labeled ‘Violin.’

      “My… my violin?”

      “Of course.  I wasn’t lying when I said I was going to help pay that off and I am.  That’s a fixed part of the budget.  I know it’s not something that helps you at this very moment, it’s not something you can see and touch like Mycroft’s paints, but it’s considered a necessity and that comes right off the top when I get paid.  There’s a figure there for your education funds, too, though I forgot to ask Mycroft just what your costs look like, so I put down something that seemed reasonable.  I admit that your brother might get a little preferential treatment right now, but that’s only because he needs it.  He _needs_ it, Sherlock, and I know you understand that.  His art is going to be critical for his health, so I have to make that a priority.  And… well, he can use a little kindness, can’t he?  When I get some side work and when Mycroft goes back out to earn his own wage, we’ll change things.  Add a little here and there and you’re not going to be forgotten, Sherlock.  Don’t think that you’re ever going to be forgotten.”

Sherlock said nothing, but stared at the notebook in his hands like it had a meaning he was sure was there, but was failing to deduce.  One thing he did observe, however, was what he _didn’t_ observe and that was anything for Lestrade.  Mycroft’s art supplies, his school funds and violin, but nothing special for the man providing the money _for_ those things.  Besides a flat, food and clothing, the very basics, he benefitted not from his own wages.  Every bit of the ‘surplus’ funds was earmarked for someone’s betterment except Lestrade’s and Sherlock was not at all sure how that realization made him feel.

      “I see.”

      “Good.  I really hope you do, Sherlock.  You’re an equal member of this household and I promise that if you need something, I’ll do my very best to see that you get it.  Now, I’m going to help Mycroft into the shower and see how he does with that.  You and John have a nice time today.  Maybe I can run out at some point to rent a film and we can roll the telly into the bedroom to all watch it together.  I’ll make something to eat and we three can just have a nice, quiet evening until you go to the lab.  How does that sound?”

      “Insipid.”

      “Great!”

      “That was not a compliment.”

      “I know, but you’re being a precious little thing and, really, that’s just great.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it wasn’t even close to his best effort and Lestrade grinned as he got up from the table.

      “Better run now, because once I get your brother in the shower, I can’t guarantee things won’t take a sexy turn.”

      “It involves Mycroft, and you, so sexy cannot be called an appropriate descriptor.”

      “Envy doesn’t suit you, lad.  Green’s definitely not your best color.”

      “John disagrees.  He finds my scarf exceedingly attractive.”

      “You mean Mycroft’s scarf.”

      “Why are you still here?”

      “I honestly don’t know.”

__________

Lestrade decided to keep his and Sherlock’s conversation to himself for the time being, since his lover didn’t need any possible additional sources of guilt, real or imagined, and returned to the bedroom with a large smile and what he hoped was a gleeful gleam in his eye.

      “Are you ready for your shower, sir?”

      “I am heady with anticipation.  The nurses were very diligent about my hygiene, however, there is only so much one can do with a patient still in his bed.”

      “Actually, I slipped them a few notes to keep their hands off you until I got my chance.  Sorry, didn’t want anyone doing more than rubbing a flannel on that gorgeous body of yours and even that cut my heart out.”

Carefully drawing back the blankets and offering Mycroft an encouraging smile, Lestrade held his arms out for his artist to grab as Mycroft maneuvered his legs over the side of the bed and it was a little extra effort to get Mycroft on his feet and in motion towards the shower which had already benefitted from Lestrade’s special touch, with help from Sherlock and John.

      “Here we go.  Some of those no-slip stickers so we don’t have to worry about an accident, soap that John said was a good choice for your skin right now and look at these towels!  So thick that if you fell into one I’d never find you.  Let’s get you ready, ok?”

A question to which Mycroft suddenly wanted to answer ‘no,’ because it was only now striking him that a shower meant undressing fully and that was something… he had not considered.

      “Mycroft?”

      “I apologize, my dear.  Simply lost in thought.”

      “Good thoughts?”

      “A scant bit of trepidation.”

      “Don’t worry about falling or anything, love.  I’m not going to let that happen.”

      “I was more concerned… it is a silly thing.  Let us proceed.”

      “Honesty, remember?”

Mycroft sighed and almost laughed.  His Gregory’s tenacity would propel him forcefully through the police ranks…

      “I remembered that to perform his act, I shall have to…”

      “To what?”

      “Expose myself.”

      “That makes you sound like a bloke in a coat who gives the ladies a filthy little show.”

This time, Mycroft did laugh and some of his anxiety ebbed away.

      “I do not believe I own outerwear suitable for the task.”

      “And thank heavens for it!  I don’t want anyone getting a look at what you’ve got but me.  Let them go and find their own piece of wonder; this one’s mine.”

Lestrade ran a hand along Mycroft’s back, then slid his arms around the artist’s waist, holding him gently.

      “Let’s get ourselves clean, and then we can spend the day however you’d like.  Whatever you want, you just tell me and that’s what we’ll do.”

After a small kiss on the back of Mycroft’s neck and a moment to make sure his lover was steady on his feet, Lestrade stepped back and made short work of stripping off his clothes, loving how Mycroft’s breath hitched as more and more of his skin came into view.

      “You are a paragon of masculinity, Gregory.”

      “My Mycroft likes what he sees?”

Just to be sure, Lestrade raised his arms and stretched, drinking up Mycroft’s small noises like fine wine.

      “Now it’s your turn to give me something to look at.”

Though he was riding a high from being on display for his lover, Lestrade couldn’t miss the shadows that raced into Mycroft’s eyes and dimmed their brilliant light.  Suddenly, a few things began to make sense and he was going to put a stop to it as best he could.

      “Now, you have to tell me if anything hurts.  I’ve got to put some film over a few of your… issues… so give me a moment and then we’ll get that hot water flowing.  Hold on just a minute longer.”

Lestrade gave Mycroft a soft kiss on his lips, then began to work the shirt off of his body, nudging the artist’s arms upwards so he could slide the shirt upwards.  One mental note was made that buttons or a zipper would feature prominently on whatever garment was put back _on_ his lover’s body once their shower was concluded.  Another mental note was made that whatever he could do to take the shame out of Mycroft’s eyes _would_ be done.  Repeatedly.

      “There we go.  Now, a bit of waterproofing…”

Lestrade covered the less-healed of Mycroft’s injuries with some film, scattering kisses over his lover’s body and humming contentedly as he worked.

      “Good.  Now, let’s get those trousers off of you and we’ll be ready.  A little tug on the waist and… yep, they slip right down.  Just step out of them… go slowly and… oh, that’s a sight I’ve been waiting to see.  My artist and all his loveliness.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Don’t you say anything foolish, Mycroft.  I’m enjoying myself right now and I’m not going to have you being humble ruin it for me.  I’ll get the water started so it’ll be nice and warm… ok.  Go slow and hold on to me.”

Mycroft looked into Lestrade’s eyes and couldn’t understand what he saw in them.  Eagerness, anticipation, satisfaction, the sparkle of lust dancing in the background… for him.  For him and the devastation he carried in his flesh.  Not at bit, not one bit of it could he fathom…

      “There you go… doesn’t that feel good?  I’m going to slide in right behind you and if you start to get wobbly, just grab onto me.  Actually, feel free to grab onto me anytime you’d like.  There’s nothing I like more than a nice grab in the shower.”

The PC’s broad smile was nothing but honest and Mycroft found the confusion swirling in his brain like a school of tiny fish fleeing a cold and cunning predator.  It simply made no sense!  How his Gregory, the most virile and well-designed of men could find him appealing was… his mind _boggled_ at the idea.  But the hands on his skin, spreading lather with the most delicate of touches were making his befuddlement far less demanding of his attention.

      “Someone’s finally relaxing.  Nice warm water, a little soapy fun… good for whatever the day brings.  You just let me take care of you and enjoy yourself while I work.”

Enjoyment was the leanest term for what Mycroft was experiencing.  His Gregory should be racing away in horror at what he was being presented; instead, he was worshipping this broken and shriveled form as if it was something precious and valuable.  And openly taking pleasure in his actions.

      “You keep staring at that and it’s going to get even happier.  Then I’ll have to take a little washing break to make him go back to sleep and that just might dirty you right back up.  Can’t have that now, can we?  But, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with letting you admire the view for a bit while I slave over all your gorgeousness.”

And, of course, his love had to… shimmy… so his attributes behaved in an extremely bawdy fashion.

      “Oh yes, someone likes what he sees.  Well, that’s good because I _love_ what I see.  A little colorful, I admit, but nothing’s going to make my Mycroft anything less than the sexiest man alive.”

And the deep kiss Lestrade gave his artist went a long way towards convincing Mycroft that his lover’s lunacy wasn’t exactly something about which to worry.  Or even if it was worrisome, he wasn’t going to spare the time for it when there were better things to do.

      “I love you, Mycroft.  The things you do to me, body and soul, you can’t begin to imagine.  I’m going to finish this up as quickly as I can, because I don’t want you on your feet for too long, but then we can have a nice day with as much art and naked posing as you want until Sherlock comes back.”

      “P…posing?”

      “I don’t think I’ll mind lying around giving my bollocks a little fresh air and have you watching me the entire time.”

Oh… that lit a fire in Mycroft’s soul that was not going to be quenched until he had rendered his beloved’s anatomy on canvas.  And another fire was lit, too, though his own body had no mechanism at this particular time to indulge that fire in the manner he would most desire.  That did not, however, leave him without alternatives…

      “I accept your offer.  But… may I not have even a small amount of dirtying before then?  Your lusts do not seem to be abating…

That was a truth Lestrade had no intention of denying.  His erection was not going to go quietly into that good night without a little help and, from the small smile on Mycroft’s face, the PC had an idea who wanted to be the one helping.

      “They never do around you.  Want to do the honors?”

      “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

      “Then consider me in your hands.  You’ll get a nice show, too, because if you don’t think I’ve been fantasizing daily about your hands on me, then you’re loony.”

Mycroft might not understand his lover’s desires, but he clung to them tightly.  In his darkest hours, it was the lifeline that kept him sane…

__________

Sherlock stalked the halls of the hospital until he found John in a small lounge, surrounded by folders, wearing a look of pure frustration on his face.

      “Why are you still here?”

The doctor wondered what it said about him that he found Sherlock’s complete lack of manners endearing.

      “Because being a doctor doesn’t stop with the nose wiping and pill dispensing.  Behold!  The really glamorous part of the job!”

      “And I did not believe that your employment could be any more tedious.”

      “I love it that I can still surprise you.”

      “When will you be finished?  We have to visit Mrs. Hudson.”

      “Oh, was that on my agenda?  Must have written it in invisible ink.”

      “I have prepared an appropriate visitation schedule and will provide you with a copy.  Also, I need to collect the mail, not that we receive anything of significance.  Further, I must file the appropriate forms for an address change so that we receive our insignificant missives.”

      “And that all sounds incredibly exciting, but I don’t see how I’m involved with any of it.”

      “Because tiresome tasks are slightly less tiresome when you participate.”

Compliments from Sherlock were always interesting to receive.

      “Ok… I can put some of this on hold until tomorrow and… give me twenty minutes to finish a few things?”

      “How are you going to amuse me in the meantime?”

John sighed, looked around the room and walked over to a small shelf from which he withdrew a book.  Stopping by a cabinet, he took out a pen and pad of paper and handed all three items to his companion.

      “Here.  One of the standard texts on toxicology.  Have fun.”

      “Acceptable.  I have not yet read this one.”

      “I’m thrilled.”

__________

Walking away from Baker Street, John held Sherlock’s hand and rubbed it lightly with his thumb.

      “How are you doing, Sherlock?”

      “She did _not_ run into a door.”

      “No… no she didn’t.”

      “Why did she say that?  Tell such an obvious lie?”

      “It’s… it’s what happens.  It’s what they say.”

      “They?”

      “People who get knocked around by husbands.  Or wives, I suppose.  They have to explain away a black eye or swollen lip and say they ran into something.  They have a broken arm or cracked head and the story might be they fell down some stairs.”

      “I do not understand.  Why not simply tell the truth?”

      “For reasons similar to your brother’s.  They’re embarrassed, feel weak that this is happening to them, but they can’t walk away… it’s a very complex issue, Sherlock and there are no easy answers or solutions.”

      “I am reporting this to Lestrade.”

      “And if Mrs. Hudson doesn’t make an official complaint, he won’t be able to do anything about it.”    

      “Anything _legal_.”

      “Ok… you have me there.  I wouldn’t put it past Greg to try something less than legal and I do think it’s a good idea to let him know what happened but don’t believe he’s going to be able to walk in there and drag anybody out in handcuffs.”

      “Then there are now two people on our revenge list that must be tended to outside the restrictive legal channels.”

      “Two?”

      “Mycroft’s despoiler.”

      “Oh yes… can’t forget him.  And I agree anyone who could do that to another human being needs to be taught the error of his ways and with a lot of force behind the lesson.  All this do-goodery… you’re going to need a cape and mask at this rate.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “We’ll rent a few films and all will be clear.”

      “I’m not going to enjoy this, am I?”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you occupied if it gets a little boring for you.”

      “Does that mean kissing?”

      “That it does.”

      “Excellent.”

      “And Sherlock… you really should open your letter.”

      “Will the contents change if I do not?”

      “No, but if you find out your court date is in ten minutes, won’t you feel silly?”

      “No.  There is really no chance of my feeling silly.  Ever.”

      “Ok, then won’t you feel arrested because they set Greg on you to drag you to jail?”

      “He likely would, too.  I have been informed he will not subvert the law for my benefit again.”

      “Yeah, I think you’ve used up your supply of police favors.  So… are you going to open it?”

      “Not now.”

John nodded and decided it was best to let Sherlock do this in his own time.  As cavalier as the student liked to behave, he was obviously disturbed by the impending trip to court and maybe it was a good idea to have reinforcements near when it actually became _real_ and he had a date to report.

      “Ok.  That’s fine.  Next on our list?”

      “Forms.”

      “This is most exciting day ever.”

      “I might then escort you through the Science Museum.”

      “Ah yes, that _was_ on your list, wasn’t it.”

      “ _Prominently_ on my list.”

      “I’m looking forward to it.”

      “Who wouldn’t be?”

__________

It was getting harder for John to fight his yawns, but it wasn’t often he got to tour a museum with a real expert.  He’d expected the experience to be a bit dry, in truth, but Sherlock actually made the information come alive in a way no one ever had before.  Having his tour end was actually disappointing and it was a good thing that Sherlock was agreeable to doing it again at some point.  Now though, they were back at Lestrade’s flat and there were less pleasant tasks to tend to.  Tasks that he wasn’t comfortable leaving Sherlock to conduct alone.  Luckily, he’d happily accepted the tea Sherlock bought him on the walk to put some pep in his step.  This was going to be a discussion he wanted to be on his best game for.

      “They must be in the bedroom.”

Sherlock looked around the flat and scowled at the emptiness.

      “That’s a good bet.  Mycroft’s should probably stay in bed for several more days before he really tries sitting on a sofa or in a chair for long periods.”

Nodding slightly, Sherlock marched towards the bedroom door, throwing it open, then slamming it shut so quickly John barely saw the sequence happen.

      “They were not expecting us.”

John’s embarrassed giggle grew into a large, amused one seeing the growing mortification on Sherlock’s face.

      “Having a bit of fun, are they?”

      “I do not see how.”

Lestrade’s ‘thanks a lot for that, you bastard’ sounding through the door just made John laugh harder until Mycroft’s ‘you may now enter’ put an end to the fun and games.  John went first and carefully peeked around the door, grinning widely at the occupants of the bedroom.

      “Ah, John.  Do come in.  Gregory is now properly clothed.”

      “That’s not something you need to share, Mycroft.”

      “Hush, my dear… being an artist’s model is a very venerable profession.”

That got John’s ears to prick up and he craned his neck to see the canvas leaning against the side of the bed.

      “Hey!  Keep your eyes off of naked me!”

      “Just wanting to check Mycroft’s anatomy work.  That’s not easy to do right, from what I hear.”

      “And you would be correct, Doctor Watson.  It does require both an attention to detail and a model who _inspires_ that attention.  Fortunately, I have both.”

John cataloged Mycroft’s responses and reactions and was pleased with what he was seeing.    There was definitely a peace about him that was absent during his patient’s hospital stay and that made him feel a little more confident about his decision to discharge Mycroft as early as he did.

      “John!”

      “It’s safe to come in, Sherlock.  No more naked Greg to worry about.”

Sherlock walked in slowly as if he was prepared for a nude PC to leap at him from behind the door.

      “I was traumatized.”

      “ _You_ were traumatized!  I’m making a sign for the door that says _Stay the Fuck Out!_ and god help you if you come in when it’s hanging!”

      “Your histrionics are not impressive Lestrade.  You should have Mycroft give you lessons.”

      “Ignoring you, Sherlock.  So, John… how’d the date go?”

Lestrade wasn’t happy that John’s little smile was more ‘well….’ than ‘hurray!’ and braced for the details, noticing his lover was doing the same thing.

      “John and I visited Mrs. Hudson and we were not pleased with what we discovered.”

Lestrade and Mycroft listened to Sherlock’s story and cut eyes towards John, who nodded his confirmation of the distressing tale.

      “Fuck.  I’ve dropped by a few times, but never saw anything concrete.  Mycroft, do you think she’ll make a statement?”

      “That she would not admit the true cause of her injured eye speaks against such an action, I’m afraid.  I sincerely doubt, my dear, that she would discuss the matter with you in your official capacity.”

      “Yeah… that’s usually the way it goes.  Do you… do any of you think you could convince her?  Right now, there’s nothing I can do unless she wants to make a formal charge against her husband.  At least nothing more than keep trying to be in the right place at the right time and catch the bastard doing something I can arrest him for.”

Sherlock, John and Mycroft looked at each other and saw the same defeat that they were feeling mirrored in the others’ eyes.

      “In truth, Gregory, I would have no firm idea how to broach the topic and not cause her further distress, possibly alienating her from future support.  I am not certain the risk merits the attempt.”

John and Sherlock nodded their agreement with Mycroft’s assessment, causing Lestrade to let out a frustrated sigh.

      “Ok… I’ll stop by to say hello tomorrow and, at least, let Mrs. Hudson know that I know and… I’ll give her this number so she can call anytime she needs help or just wants to talk.  She’d probably enjoy having the means to chat with Mycroft and Sherlock anyway.”

      “That is a delightful idea, Gregory.  Mrs. Hudson does enjoy a lively hour of conversation and it is an easy thing to accommodate her wishes.  Perhaps… perhaps when I am more mobile, I can extend an invitation for a visit.  I believe it would gladden her to know that she is welcome in our home and that Sherlock and I are in comfortable circumstances.”

      “Good.  That’s settled then.  Sherlock, John… thanks for telling us… anything we can do to help is going to make a difference.”

      “And that’s not all of our news.”

Sherlock snarled at John, who whistled innocently while the older pair looked on expectantly.

      “Sherlock… is there something Gregory and I should know?”

Sherlock fished his letter out of his pocket and tossed it at his brother, who hissed slightly at the seal on the envelope and passed it to Lestrade.

      “Well, you knew it was coming.  Might as well open it.”

Seeing Sherlock make no move to retrieve his letter, Lestrade opened it for him.

      “Ok… day after tomorrow.  Looks like it came awhile ago and I admit I never thought to ask Mrs. Hudson for the mail, myself.  But that’s ok.  Everything should go smoothly and there’s nothing we can really do to prepare, anyway.”

      “What do you think, Greg?  Is it… Sherlock will just get a fine, right?”

Lestrade wanted to smile at the worry in John’s voice… his and Sherlock’s relationship was developing _very_ nicely.

      “Probably.  I don’t see him being given a custodial sentence for simple possession; that’s not the way it works.”

      “How large a fine, my dear?  Have you any insight?”

      “It depends.  He had a fair amount on him when he was charged… don’t look at me that way, you little bastard… but not enough to raise any real red flags that there was intent to distribute.  It’s his first offense, which is good.  He’s a student, which can be good or bad, depending on who hears the case, but it’s usually a good thing.  He was caught in a drugs raid at a ungodly nasty house, which is bad.  That’s not like being run in for a little Ecstasy you had in your pocket at a club.  And he was high when they took him in.  High from shooting up, not from smoking a little weed.  That’s also bad.  But, if he shows remorse, that will work to his favor.  Maybe if John could give him a piss test and get the results back quickly, we could hand that over to show he’s clean.  And you’re not wealthy, which surprisingly helps.  He qualifies for legal aid, so they know you’re not flush with cash.  For a simple case where he’s pleading guilty, they’ll definitely consider your means and set the fine accordingly.  Normally, I’d not be too worried, but I know they’ve been coming down hard lately.  I’d be surprised, though, if it was more than a couple of hundred pounds.  I’d be surprised it if was _that_ , actually, but I’m going to be prepared, just in case.”

      “Thank you, my dear… it is heartening to know that the amount is within reach.”

      “It’s going to be alright, Mycroft.  Don’t worry about anything.”

      “And I shall know that for myself for I will attend Sherlock’s court appearance.”

The three shouts of NO!  were not surprising, but Mycroft had to wonder if they were trying to deafen him into submission.

      “I’m sorry, Mycroft, but that’s not going to happen.  You’re not strong enough for that and I can’t allow it.”

      “I, too, am sorry John, however, barring physical restraint, you cannot actually stop me.”

That the three people he was facing cringed at his statement made Mycroft highly curious, but it was a discussion for a later time.

      “Mycroft, love… I know you want to be there to support your brother, but be reasonable.  Besides getting there, the wait can be long and then we have to get you home again…”

      “Regardless, I shall attend.  I will even permit John to provide me with a more potent pain formulation for the occasion.”

      “Mycroft…”

      “If I do not attend, Gregory, who shall?  You must work and…”

      “I can trade shifts with someone.  I’ll be there, so you don’t have to worry about Sherlock being alone.”

      “And I’ll go, too.  I’m still on nights, so it’s not a problem.”

      “Thank you, John, I appreciate your solicitousness, however, the matter is closed.  I _will_ attend.  Sherlock, you might do well to craft an appropriate outfit to show respect for the court.  If you require something, you may use what funds we have remaining in our household account to purchase the items.”

      “Are you certain you would not simply like to pop down to the shops and find something yourself, seeing as your health seems to no longer be a concern?”

      “My concern, brother dear, as always, is for your well-being.  In any case, a simple day of watching the judiciary perform their duties shall not tax my health unduly.”

Sherlock snorted and Lestrade shot John a look that said clearly it was on the doctor’s shoulders to put his foot down, but John knew Mycroft was right.  Barring a physical action, he had no method to make his patient do anything and the last thing they needed was to leave for court and have Mycroft try to follow along by himself.

      “Sherlock and Greg are right… this is going to be hard for you and as your doctor that concerns me.  A lot.  Can we at least agree that if it seems the day is going to go on longer than expected, you’ll say you’ve done enough and let me or Greg bring you back home?  And that if you feel anything that worries you, you will tell me immediately and not create the need for an ambulance call because you kept your worries to yourself?”

      “I believe an agreement is easily accomplished.  There, Sherlock… you will have the full support of the household behind you and we can finally put all of this dreadful business behind us.  Now, I believe a spot of tea is called for.  Gregory, would you mind terribly?”

      “John and I will make the tea.”

Sherlock grabbed John and nearly dragged him out of the room, likely, Lestrade was sure, for the type of conversation he was about to have with his own partner.

      “Are you insane?”

      “I do not believe I read that on my medical chart.”

      “You can’t go to court, Mycroft.  It’s going to be too difficult for you.”

      “I will _not_ leave Sherlock to his own devices for a matter of this importance.”

      “He won’t be!  John and I will both be there.”

      “But, neither you nor John is me and, therefore, not an acceptable substitute.”

      “Please, love… I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Mycroft smiled and reached up to caress Lestrade’s cheek.

      “I know you do not and I love you for your unwavering devotion, but this is something I must do, Gregory.  I simply must.”

Lestrade sighed and knew nothing he said was going to change his lover’s mind on the subject.  When it came to Sherlock, Mycroft’s stubbornness knew no bounds.

      “Fine, but I’m going to have my eye on you the entire time and the second I think you’re in too much pain or something’s gone wrong, I’m getting you out of there and that’s the end of it.”

      “I shall do my best not to force your manhandling.  Until, that is, we have returned home after a successful day, in which case, I shall do my best to instigate it, instead.”

      “And we do have a painting to finish.”

      “That we do.  Something I am looking forward to with great pleasure.”

      “Me too.  I almost like having you sex me up with your eyes as much as you sexing me up with your hands.”

      “Then I shall ensure you a lifetime of both.”

      “That’s what I’m counting on.”

__________

The next morning, Lestrade had an easy time swapping shifts since one of his brethren had a wife with a birthday in a few days and was more than happy to do his husbandly duty and show her a nice time in celebration.  With that done, he followed his artist’s advice and dragged Sherlock out for a little shopping in the evening to put him into something slightly nicer to face the magistrates and, the following morning, got a good breakfast into everyone to start the day on the right foot, though a ‘good’ breakfast for Mycroft still wasn’t what he wanted it to be.  Then, it was the very slow process of getting Mycroft ready and into a taxi.  Even with the extra painkillers John had given him, it was clear that his lover was in pain during the ride and the walk up the court steps was difficult and slow.

      “How are you, Mycroft?”

      “Much as I expected, my dear.  However, Doctor Watson’s pharmaceutical assistance is providing a valorous level of aide.”

      “I’m glad.  Now, we could be here awhile so… do you want to sit down or walk a bit?”

      “Sit, I think.  Just for a moment, at least, to catch my breath.”

Lestrade looked around and despaired that there was nothing on offer but hard benches and wished there was any chance his lover would be amenable to sitting on his lap for the duration.

      “Ok, let’s get you settled.”

John helped situate Mycroft and surreptitiously gave him a check over, not liking what he saw, but not finding any of it surprising.

      “How long will we have to wait, Greg?”

      “As long as it takes.  They’ll call cases and it’s a matter of how long each takes.  Why don’t you and Sherlock go and find his courtroom and see if his solicitor is here yet.  I’ll keep Mycroft company.”

John nodded and took the student by hand to go exploring.  Sherlock had been atypically quiet all morning, but arriving in the building had put a measure of something indefinable in his posture and inflection, when he did speak, that clearly signaled Sherlock’s upset and John promised himself that he’d stay by Sherlock’s side every minute until this was over.  Mycroft was right, he needed support and the more the better.

__________

      “How are you doing, love?”

      “You asked that of me not five minutes ago, Gregory.”

      “I know, but something might have changed since then.”

It still amazed the older Holmes how wonderful it felt to be loved so deeply.

      “I am well, and, as I have promised, I will notify you in the event that changes.”

      “Ok… I just worry, you know?  You may say it’s going to be an easy day for you, but I know that’s crap.  I just hope Sherlock realizes what you’re going through for him.  What you’re suffering on his account.”

      “He does, Gregory… he does.  And it is adding to the already-significant distress he is experiencing.  This is all quite surreal to him; it makes little sense, for it represents a perspective that challenges him due to its unfamiliarity.”

      “You mean getting his arse kicked for breaking the law.”

      “More, it is that his actions have consequence.  That is not the norm for him, Gregory, not the norm at all.  His actions are tolerated, ignored, chastised… but not punished.  Oh, the reprimand, the dressing-down… those he has suffered an incalculable number of times, but to find himself in a situation that will impose a penalty of significance is beyond his understanding.  The worry, the confusion, the indignity and, yes, the violated sense of entitlement, are all pressing on him and the result is a harrowing one.”

      “Not that he doesn’t deserve it.”

      “Be that as it may, he _is_ suffering and that is not something I find easy to bear.”

Lestrade gently wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s waist and gave him a smile.

      “That’s why you’re a great brother.”

      “That is why he is able to so easily make me dance to his sonata.”

      “Hey!  Just think… after today we’ll be able to concentrate on getting his violin back.  Then I’ll finally get to hear him play.”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to smile and he did so easily.

      “It is truly a majestic thing to witness.”

      “I bet John’s going to swoon, just like the dainty damsel he is.”

      “However, Sherlock will simply step over John’s prone body as he focuses on his music.  He does favor a stroll around the room as he concentrates on a composition.”

      “They make a wonderful couple.”

      “Unquestionably.”

__________

      “This is intolerable!”

      “Sherlock… you need to calm down.  We haven’t been here that long.”

John had taken Sherlock for a stroll after they’d returned to be with Mycroft and Lestrade and the student’s nervous fidgeting began to cause his patient visible worry.  Finding a quiet area, he had convinced Sherlock to sit with him and take a moment to relax, not that any relaxation had actually occurred.

      “Why was I not put first in line?  The matter is a simple one and we could already be done with this nonsense.”

John patted Sherlock’s knee, but had his hand knocked off as Sherlock shot upwards to begin pacing.

      “And there are probably a host of other simple matters for this session, too.  It’s just the way it is, Sherlock.  No one’s singling you out for any special punishment.”

      “Not that I deserve this ridiculous charade of justice, in any case.”

      “From what you’ve told me, you deserve it and more.  You made a mistake, lots of people do.  The important thing is that it doesn’t happen again and since that’s not a concern…”

      “Why would you say that?”

John stared at Sherlock and felt a cold wind blow through him.

      “Because I’m assuming that you’re done with making stupid decisions about drugs and that you’re going to stay clean.”

      “That is rather presumptuous of you, don’t you think?”

      “No… I think that’s what anybody would expect given the circumstances.”

      “Oh, do you mean our _relationship_?”

A flare of anger flared in the doctor as Sherlock nearly sneered out the last word and it took a great deal of effort to swallow it down without lashing back.

      “Partly, yes.  But mostly because you’ve seen what can happen to you if you go back to your old ways.  And you’ve seen what the people who care for you will do to help you and support you, so throwing that back in their faces would be pretty damned ungrateful.”

      “And gratitude ranks so highly on my list of priorities.”

      “It should!  Greg risked his career, Mycroft… Mycroft risked his _life_ …”

      “None of which I requested, so I bear no responsibility for their decisions.”

John reeled at the sheer arrogance of Sherlock’s words, but the tone was wrong, told a slightly different tale, and carried an undercurrent of unpleasantness that had nothing to do with the haughty expression on his friend’s face.

      “Ok, this conversation is over since it’s not going anywhere but into a fight that neither of us wants.  You’re going to get called when you get called and then we can talk about things once you’re home.”

      “You are not my superior, John, so kindly do not give me orders.”

      “Don’t go down this path, Sherlock.  Today is not the day for you to…”

      “Today is no different than any day, besides the imposition on my time by this nonsense that Lestrade condemned me to.”

      “Greg didn’t condemn you, you bastard!  He…”

John’s sentence was cut off as Sherlock’s name was announced and the student turned on his heel and marched towards his fate.  John ran down the corridor and informed Lestrade and Mycroft who hurried, as best as Mycroft was able, to watch the proceedings.  John found seats for them near the door and each man took a chair, while trying to keep their anxiety from showing on their faces.  Since Lestrade had been in court many times, the process was familiar to him, but this was new and somewhat frightening to his companions, so the PC quietly explained the steps and procedures as Sherlock moved through his hearing.  When Sherlock entered his guilty plea, all three breathed a sigh of relief, since it would not be against the student’s personality to plead not guilty out of spite and that sigh of relief escalated when, after an expected speech on changing his ways and not wasting the opportunities in his life, Sherlock was given a £100 fine.

      “That little?  No wonder the criminals run amok through the streets.  They certainly have no fear of any punitive measures, at least from this court.”

The only sound that could be heard in the court was Mycroft’s slight groan and Lestrade quickly laid a hand on the artist’s shoulder to comfort him.

      “Pardon me, young man?”

Sherlock smirked at the center magistrate and shook his head.

      “My pardon is something I shall not be bestowing.”

Now the noise was Lestrade’s, an angry hiss that sounded like a snake had slithered into the room.  Actually, that would have suited the constable very well, as long as it bit the idiot who was standing there insulting the very people who held his fate in their hands.

      “Very well.  If you are not agreeable to your sentence, we shall be happy to accommodate you.  Let us say £500?”

Mycroft, Lestrade and John stopped breathing, then moaned and held their head in their hands when Sherlock turned to the gallery and gave a dramatic roll of the eyes.

      “Still not to your liking?  Well, we do aim to please, so may we agree on £1000?”

Sherlock’s mouth opened and Lestrade actually stood and began walking forward to drag the fool away and prevent any further damage, but Sherlock’s representative did that for him, apologizing profusely to the court and accepting the fine on Sherlock’s behalf.  Their dismissal came quickly and Sherlock stormed out of the courtroom, John fast on his heels, leaving Lestrade to gather up the quickly dissolving Mycroft and walk him out to where they could have some privacy.

      “Gregory… what did he… how _could_ he?”

      “I don’t know.  Because he’s a stupid, scared kid who _cannot_ keep his fucking mouth shut?”

      “What are we going to do?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “But… we must do something!  What… what can we do?  Gregory, this… what can be done?”

      “I DON’T KNOW!”

Lestrade bit his tongue and began kicking the inside of his skull as hard as possible seeing Mycroft flinch sharply and try to draw away from him.

      “I’m sorry, love.  I am so, so sorry.  I didn’t mean to shout.”

Very tentatively, the PC put his arms around his artist and held him at a distance until Mycroft stepped closer into his embrace.

      “We’re going to think of something, Mycroft.  I’ll talk to his solicitor about it.  There are payment plans that can be set up, though Sherlock’s probably on the blacklist for that now, but we’ll try that first.  My credit limit’s not very high, but I can try to get it raised or talk to my bank about a loan.  And… I have my grandfather’s watch and a few other pieces of jewelry from him and my Gran that I can sell.  They’re worth something and with what we already have that might be enough.”

The PC drew Mycroft the rest of the way towards him and let his lover rest his head on his shoulder while he struggled to hold back the bitter, caustic tears that dearly wanted to flow.  His artist was in pain, frustrated, desperate, defeated and if he could get his hand on Sherlock’s neck right now, you’d hear a loud and terminal snap echoing off the walls.

      “You should not have to sacrifice so greatly.”

      “Part of being in a family and I take family seriously.  It’ll be alright, Mycroft.  We will make it through this and it’ll be nothing but a bad memory.”

      “Until the next time.”

      “Don’t think that way.  He’s going to learn from this.  He’s going to learn his lesson and we’re not going to have to worry about something like this again.”

      “You are terribly optimistic, Gregory, but… I do not know if I can share your outlook.  His behavior…”

      “Was stupid.  And irresponsible.  But he was on edge and scared and… well, you know.”

      “But if he cannot control himself… what else shall he destroy because he cannot control his behavior?  We cannot endure this again, Gregory.  We simply cannot.”

His artist wasn’t enduring it now, if the uncontrolled trembling racking Mycroft’s body was any indication.  Lestrade stroked his lover’s hair a moment and then began to lead him towards the exit.

      “We’ll endure whatever comes out way, because we don’t back down from a fight and we don’t let anything beat us.  Come on, let’s go home and get you back into bed.  Sherlock and John will be home… at some point… and we can talk.  Until they get back we can rest or read or do whatever you’d like.”

Though Lestrade suspected Mycroft would immediately reach for his art supplies the second he got placed in the bed.  Whether he’d be able to fight through his emotions, the physical pain and the exhaustion to do anything with those supplies, though, was another matter.  Slowly, the two men moved towards the door and Lestrade thanked the heavens that he found a cab quickly, as well as possessed the money to pay for the cabs for this trip.  With Mycroft fracturing and the cracks getting larger and larger, getting home quickly was a high priority.  And, if his lover needed a little wine to relax, he’d get it, pain medicine or not.  John wouldn’t be there to say no.  He had other things to deal with…


	31. Chapter 31

Lestrade gritted his teeth through the entire cab ride home.  It was cringingly difficult getting Mycroft into the cab because his artist’s mind had little attention to spare for petty concerns such as making his limbs move… too much of it was taken up with pain, both emotional and physical, which was quickly escalating every minute they rode towards the flat and Lestrade had no idea how to lessen any of it.  The best he could do was hold Mycroft tightly when he periodically burst into a nearly panicked rage, urge the cabbie to hurry and nearly carry his lover from the cab up to the flat.  Then it was the delicate process of changing Mycroft into more comfortable clothes and the PC wanted to punch a hole through the wall seeing the blood seeping from a number of formerly-healing cuts and, most troublingly, the small drops staining the back of his lover’s pants.  One very loose pair of warm trousers and even looser, button-up shirt went onto the continuously trembling body and, as soon as Lestrade got his artist slightly propped-up in bed, he gave him a quick kiss and ran to the kitchen for a glass of water to help Mycroft steady his nerves and take a pain pill, one of the stronger ones John had brought this morning to help with the field excursion.  Once Mycroft took a few shaky sips, Lestrade set aside the glass, quickly changed into something for his own comfort and carefully took his place in bed, next to the man who had yet to say a single word since they had gotten into the cab.  That was something Lestrade now wanted to change.

      “How are you doing, love?  You need to let me know if anything’s… if something’s more wrong than it should be.”

Mycroft didn’t seem to even register the question and Lestrade took the artist’s hand and rubbed it vigorously to stimulate a little awareness.

      “How are you, Mycroft?  Talk to me.”

      “I have no idea how to begin to answer you, Gregory.”

      “Start with if there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable.”

      “No… that is something I cannot contemplate at the moment.  It is immaterial.”

      “It’s not.  It’s the _first_ thing I want you contemplating, Mycroft.  Everything else can wait.  Now, tell me… do you hurt too badly, are you warm enough, comfortable enough, are you thirsty…”

None of which mattered as soon as Mycroft broke into tears and Lestrade rushed to console him and prevent any possibility for further damage if the emotions ran too high.

      “How could he do this?  It was… he was nearly free of the whole experience!  And he threw it away…  It was a _gift_ , Gregory, a true gift and he hurled it into the mud much as every gift he has been given.  Love, compassion, acceptance, affection… he hurls them away as if they were not valuable… as if they were not the most precious gifts one can be given in this life!  He tosses them aside as if they were meaningless!  If he cares not for these things, these rare and special things… for what _can_ he care?  Is there anything that is meaningful to him?  Will he… will _he_ ever be able to give those things to anyone?  I do not speak of myself for I know the answer to that question, but to you or John or _anyone_.  Is he only capable of hurt?  Of arrogance and entitlement?  Have I hoped… for all of these years... have I hoped for him in vain?  Has all that I have prayed for been for naught?  I cannot bear that, Gregory… I simply cannot…”

Lestrade held his partner and whispered soft soothing words into his ear until the newest round of breakdown began to pass.

      “I don’t think it’s been in vain, Mycroft.  I really don’t.  I… I have no idea why he did something that stupid, but there has… maybe he was just scared.”

      “That makes no sense.”

      “Yes, it does.  You do things sometimes when you’re scared that aren’t smart.  Things that are even harmful to what you’re trying to achieve or avoid.  I mean…”

Maybe this wasn’t the right path to take, but Lestrade didn’t think anything could upset his lover any more deeply at this point.

      “…look at your choice to help Sherlock out of this mess.  You were scared and desperate… if you hadn’t been, you might have come to me, instead of doing what you did.  We could have worked together for a solution, one that would have spared you all of this hurt.  You weren’t thinking clearly and if you had been, things might have been different.  I’m not chiding you, love, or blaming you… not at all, not in any way… because you did what you thought you had to and it was a very brave decision.  But maybe it wasn’t the smartest decision because there were parts of your brain involved in the decision that aren’t concerned with things being smart, if _that_ makes any sense.  You did more for your brother than anyone in the world could have asked of you, but… well, we could have, at least, tried to find a different answer if we’d worked together on it.”

Mycroft wanted to argue, wanted to tell Lestrade that his argument was nonsense, but that was not the case.  There _was_ some merit to his words and that was something he had not wanted to think about the few times the idea had tried to solicit his mental attention.  He had been overcome with fear, with despair, a sense of profound failure… in hindsight, Sherlock’s arguments against involving his lover were weak and, in the sea of emotions that invaded him, he could not recognize that fact.  He acted rashly and hastily and… no, his decision had not been a prudent one.  It accomplished the goal, which, ultimately was all that mattered, however, with a more thorough analysis of the situation, the goal could have been achieved through less costly means.

      “I cannot deny your point is a valid one.”

      “I can’t tell you how much I admire you for what you did, love… that took a strength I can’t begin to describe.  I just wish you hadn’t had to do it at all.  I’m wondering if Sherlock just did something because he felt upset or desperate.  Plus he’s young and I see young people doing very stupid things all the time.  Things I have no idea why in the world they would think what they’re doing is a good idea.  But, we’re not going to know for sure until Sherlock’s here to talk with us about it.  Even then… I don’t know if he’ll be able to give us a good answer.  John’s with him, though, so that should be some help.”

      “But for how long?  John is a respectable, decent man… why would he choose to remain with someone who will, by all evidence, take his affections and efforts and cast them aside when the mood strikes him.  When will it be John’s regard that my brother gleefully lets fall from his hand?  And Sherlock was doing so well!  He was making strides and conducting himself very positively in this and now… now I have doubts as to whether I would encourage the doctor to remain in his company were I asked.”

      “Don’t think that way, Mycroft.  It’s… yeah, it’s something to think about, but not now and… well, just not now.  Sherlock _has_ been very good with John, nothing like the miserable bastard I met the first time he barged into your flat.  He’s been trying to be someone John would like to involve himself with and that counts for a lot, doesn’t it?  And we all have times we do something miserable to the people we care about.  It happens, that’s the way life is, but right now… who knows?  He might be apologizing or, at least, explaining what happened so John can understand.”

      “And he might not.”

The heat of Mycroft’s upset was dying, but it was being replaced by a worrying flatness and pessimism that was giving Lestrade his own fright since he had no idea how to handle it.  Mycroft was Sherlock’s staunchest supporter, but that support seemed to have reached its limit.

      “I’m going to believe that he is, either because he wanted to himself or because John’s beaten an explanation and apology out of him.  I am absolutely going to believe that he’ll do something to keep John from running away at top speed because he does value what he’s building with John.  And I’m going to believe that he’s going to come back here and do the same with us because he values that, too.  Maybe he lost his way for a moment, but he’s _not_ going to let the good things in his life slip away because he _does_ care about them.  About us.  All of us.”

      “I wish I could share your confidence.”

      “If you can’t right now, that’s fine.  I’ll be confident enough for the both of us.”

At least the tears had stopped flowing, but Lestrade knew his artist was far from relaxed and had only lost the sharpest edge of his distress.  Gently extracting himself from around his lover, the PC wet a small cloth with the remaining water in the glass and used it to wipe Mycroft’s reddened face, trying to smile comfortingly as he cooled the flushed skin.

      “It’s going to be alright, Mycroft.  If pushed to the wall, I can find a way to get all the money we need.  It’s not that much, really.  I’ll be able to, so don’t worry about that bit anymore.  It’s not going to be a problem.”

      “Gregory…”

      “No, now listen… it’s a lot, but it’s not like £10,000 or something.  It will hurt, no doubt about that, but it won’t hurt forever.  And while it hurts, Sherlock’s going to feel that pain, too, and realize even more how being a bastard was exactly the wrong thing to do.  No extra cash for nights out with John, a longer wait until he gets his violin back… maybe he won’t be the one paying that money, but he’ll feel the hurt and… I’m sure that will mean something to him.”

      “You should not have to do this, Gregory.  I have failed Sherlock and I have failed you…”

This wasn’t a careful motion, this was a quick hop back into bed to stem the rising tide of guilt and self-hate that Lestrade absolutely could not let crest.

      “No.  No no no no no.  You didn’t fail anyone!  You did _not_ fail Sherlock and you certainly didn’t fail me.  You’ve loved your brother like no one in this world ever could, protected him with everything you had in you, did anything and everything possible to give him the best life and only let yourself have one thing to call you own – your art.  You did _not_ fail him.  Never.  And I’ll tell you until the end of time that you didn’t fail me and keep on going even after that.  I knew, every step of the way, what it meant to get involved with you, Mycroft.  I knew exactly what I was in for and I wanted it.  I knew there would be good times and hard times and Sherlock… his own brand of good and hard times.  I knew it and that didn’t make me want you any less.  Didn’t make me think twice about jumping right in and making a life with you.  So do not, not for one tiny second feel that you failed me.  Not in any way.  Don’t take on that guilt.  It’s not yours and I won’t let you carry it.  I won’t.  It’s not right and I’m not going to let you hurt yourself by believing that it is.  Now, put that thought out of your mind.  Kick it out with one of those long, lovely feet and don’t let it come back.”

      “But when will it stop!  When will you have to stop paying for my and Sherlock’s mistakes!”

      “The second you stop paying for mine.  I should have talked to him before he went into court.  I should have talked to him the minute you said he was off his game.  I’ve known Sherlock long enough to realize that was a bad sign and I didn’t take one step to find out more or try to calm him down before he had to face the magistrates.  I’m not going to beat my head to a pulp because of it, though.  It won’t help anything.  Just have to move on and try to learn from it.  And I’m not paying for your mistakes, love… I’m doing what we both want to do – take care of our family.”

      “You are too noble a man, Gregory.  Far too noble for the likes of Sherlock and myself.”

      “You’re just not going to let go right now, are you?  That’s ok… here…”

Lestrade reached over and grabbed Mycroft’s sketchbook, placing it on the artist’s lap.

      “I want a drawing.”

Mycroft stared in disbelief at his lover, but opened to a clean page and motioned for Lestrade to hand him a particular pencil from his supplies.

      “What am I to draw?”

      “Me and you.  Not me and you now, but me and you in thirty or forty years, when we’re old gents and retired from whatever it is we’re doing.  Maybe we still live in London or maybe we’ve moved out to where the air is cleaner and there’s different scenery for you to sketch and flowers to plant on a piece of land that’s actually our own.  Me and you as old gents with our ugly jumpers and glasses and wrinkles, sitting outside reading a book or taking a walk or whatever we’re going to do when we’re ancient.  Can you do that for me?”

This time, the water in Mycroft’s eyes didn’t come from pain, it came from a surge of nearly overwhelming love for the man smiling down at him.  The man who had a vision that was the most beautiful he could ever imagine.

      “I can and I shall.”

      “Great!  And, I’m going to pour us a little wine.  The real stuff, too.  I don’t think a small glass will hurt you and I’ll enjoy my own as I have a little read right here next to you.  Back in a moment.”

Lestrade hurried off to get the wine and Mycroft took a moment to compose himself before making the first lines on the paper.  No, he would never pay for his lover’s mistakes, but if the day came he was presented a bill for his own good fortune in finding such an incomparable man as his Gregory, he would pay with a smile on his face and song in his heart because no cost was too large for finding the love of one’s life…

__________

      “Sherlock!  Stop!”

John ran after Sherlock and ran was the proper word because the student was striding away at top speed and only a full-out race was going to catch him before he was out of sight.

      “Sherlock!  Wait!”

Showing no signs of stopping, Sherlock, burst through the doors of the building and quickly made his way down the street, trying to ignore the voice in his head that sounded distressingly like John.

      “Sherlock!  Stop… just stop!  _Please_!”

If only John hadn’t said please… Sherlock found his legs slowing on their own accord and, in a moment, a slightly-winded John was at his side.

      “Sherlock… what happened?  Why?  Why in the world did you do that?”

      “It is irrelevant.”

      “No!  No, it is not irrelevant!  You were about to leave there and never have to think about this again!  Greg had the money right in his pocket and you could be rid of this mess, but now… what in the hell is going on inside your head?  How could you… with Greg and Mycroft right there watching, you threw away everything they’ve done for you!”

      “I DID NOT ASK FOR IT!  I ASKED _NOTHING_ OF THEM!”

John reeled back from the shout and Sherlock started off again, this time at a running gait and John was certain it was only the adrenalin from his anger and shock that enabled him to overtake and slam into Sherlock, knocking him off course and into the side of a building.

      “Stop!  Just stop, Sherlock!  I am not going to keep chasing you.”

      “Good.”

Sherlock started running again and John yelled a word his mother would have smacked him for.  Pumping his legs as fast as they could go, he finally leaped forward and grabbed the back of Sherlock’s shirt holding on so the taller man had to stop to try and shake him off.

      “Let go of me!”

      “No!”

      “Let GO of me!”

      “Not going to happen!  You’re going to talk to me, you bastard!”

Sherlock tried to get John to release him, but found that the doctor was more powerful than he expected, maintaining his grip, which was now on Sherlock’s arms, no matter how much force Sherlock put into his protest.  Taking advantage of the situation, John pushed Sherlock along towards the small café he saw ahead of them, pausing only to elbow open the door, before shoving Sherlock to an empty table, wincing in apology at the hostess that had moved forward to greet them, only to nearly get knocked over by their entrance.

      “Now, you’re going to have… whatever they have here… and we’re going to talk.  You are not going to throw a fit or try to run or I truly will _not_ follow you out of here and you have to think about whether you really want that or not.”

Sherlock scowled thunderously, wanting desperately to kick over the table and storm out of the building, but… but something inside of him was holding him back, no matter how much he wanted to throw John’s threat back into his face, then go and find someone to sell him something to make him forget that he’d ever met the blond doctor.  But that didn’t mean he had to enjoy himself.  Or even speak.

The waitress finally plucked up the nerve to approach the table where the tension was thick and acrid and was happy to scamper away with a lunch order and the command to bring tea and keep it flowing.  Now, Sherlock decided, he _did_ want to speak.

      “I am not an infant.  You do not command me to eat at your whim.”

      “Command?  I didn’t command you to do anything.  The server asked for our order and I knew you weren’t going to say anything, so I asked her to bring out something so we could actually hold the table.  You don’t have to eat anything if you don’t want to, but I’d rather not be asked to leave because we’re sitting here glaring at each other over a bare space where a plate should be.”

      “If we _were_ asked to leave, I would not hesitate to acquiesce to the request.”

John let out a prolonged sigh and counted to ten to de-escalate his temper.

      “Sherlock… please, just talk to me.”

      “You do love to deliver your little orders, don’t you?  I should not be surprised… it _is_ the pattern of late.”

      “I’m not ordering you.  I’m _begging_ you, if that makes a difference.  And… what do you mean pattern?  I don’t… have I… ok, I know I can be a bit bossy now and then… I have to be like that at work and it might carry over, but I don’t intend…”

      “And now the arrogance.  Assuming you are the sole data point to define a pattern.”

 _Oh_ …

      “Ok, I think I’m beginning to understand.”

      “You understand _nothing_.”

      “And that’s part of what I’m understanding.  Something is wrong, Sherlock, and all I want to do is help you with it.”

      ‘EVERYONE is trying to help me!  When are they ever going to STOP?”

Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of his hair and John worried that he was going to tear masses from his scalp as he curled his head down, nearly touching his chin to his chest.  And the picture forming in his own head was worrying him even more.

      “They’re not going to, so the answer is never.  Mycroft, Greg… me… we care about you and you help people you care for.”

Sherlock looked up sharply and John sweated a little under the scrutiny.

      “I see.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly the response John had been expecting, but then, he didn’t really know _what_ he’d been expecting so there wasn’t much surprise.  Just a little puzzlement that he wasn’t necessarily ready to explore right now, but he, at least, had Sherlock’s attention and the student seemed to actually be listening.

      “Good.  But why are you upset about that?  There are people in this world… countless people… who would love to have people who care for them.  You have something not everyone has and that should make you happy!  There are people who support you and will do _anything_ for you.  Why wouldn’t you want that?”

      “I didn’t… I asked no one for that.”

Pushing people away, didn’t _ask_ for help… there _was_ a pattern forming, but John needed more pieces to get it to come together.

      “No, you didn’t, but you’re not supposed to.  When people care for you, they step forward when you need help without you having to ask.  They want to help because seeing you in trouble… if you suffer, so do they.”

      “And what I want is inconsequential.”

      “No… but don’t you… isn’t any of that important to you?  Maybe it’s a silly question since you slaughtered Greg and Mycroft just a bit ago, but I’d like to hear you say it, nonetheless.”

John watched Sherlock bit his lip and stab at the food that the waitress had hurriedly dropped on the table before racing back towards less volatile customers.  At least he wasn’t simply snapping back with something caustic.

      “I took no pleasure from that.”

      “Ok, that’s good to know.  But you didn’t answer my question.  Is it important to you that people consider you worth caring about?  That they’re willing to sacrifice so much for you…”

      “I did not ASK them to!”

      “No, you didn’t but… Sherlock, are you feeling guilty about Mycroft and Greg’s help?”

      “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Sherlock’s face said, however, that John’s arrow had landed somewhere near the target.

      “I don’t think it’s ridiculous.  It would be normal, actually.”

      “What it would be is intrusive.  I did not ask for this… I did not choose to feel… whatever I might feel.  They made the decisions and now I have to suffer not only their pity and scorn, but the pain they carry for their own actions!”

      “That makes no…”

      “I did not ask Mycroft to put himself in our father’s path!  It should have been _my_ choice to fight or submit!  I should not be condemned to know his life has been destroyed because of me!  I should not have to see him in brutal agony because of me!  I should suffer the pain of my actions and my actions alone!”

      “Sherlock…”

      “Lestrade depletes his accounts for my benefit and I have to suffer the shame of his generosity!  I did not ask for that!  I did not ask to sit at his table and look across at him knowing that the food in my mouth is from his largesse and that he has not the funds to provide for himself even the smallest luxury because he has already given it to me!  To me and, by extension, to Mycroft because of what I did, so Mycroft cannot even fund the supplies for his art.  I did _not_ ask for that!  I sit with a pool of acid in my stomach that is not of my making.  I cringe at the pain that racks Mycroft’s body and it is not my own pain!  He took that action and now I suffer for it!  No choices… I hurt and feel shame and not for any choice of mine!  I must live every day with the consequences of _their_ choices and not a bit of it was my decision.   I have _no_ decisions anymore.  None.  They have made them all and I pay for those and it HURTS!  It hurts to watch them and I did not ask for ANY of it!”

      “Ok… let’s…”

      “Mycroft should be well and whole and when his injuries heal he will still be broken!  He will forever lead a broken life and I did not demand that.  Lestrade gives and gives with no hope of any return and I did not beg that of him!  I feel the hurt grow every day and it is NOT MINE!”

      “But today’s _is_ yours.”

      “YES!”

John quickly reached over and grabbed his friend’s wrists to keep Sherlock from bolting from the table.

      “ _You_ made that choice.  _You_ took control and the pain, this time, is yours to own.  It makes things better.  It makes sense.  You tried to hurt me because I was upset and it was hurting you, although you didn’t ask for me to come with you today or try to help you through the situation.”

Sherlock was shaking so hard, John had no choice but to take the chance and let go of one wrist, while he dug in his pocket for some money to throw on the table, before pulling the rapidly-dissolving student out of the café.

      “Let’s walk… just breathe, Sherlock.  Just do that for a minute.  It’s going to be alright.  I promise you… we’ll get this sorted.”

John ran a hand up and down Sherlock’s back as he guided this friend along past the rows of shops and groups of people that Sherlock complete failed to register.  As they walked, the doctor breathed through his own distress because it was just now becoming clear how profoundly Sherlock had been affected by all of this… much more so than he had understood.  The upset at the revelations about their childhood was one thing, but his… _friend_ would do for now for a term… was experiencing a much broader upheaval.  Sherlock had lived his life with the conviction that _he_ directed his emotions, if he chose to experience them, and now he was shattering from the amount of control one gave up when they found themselves accepting the love of other people.  Nothing hurt worse than seeing the ones you love in pain and knowing you’re the reason why.  Sherlock’s little breakdown made its own strange sense as, unfortunately, did his lashing out.

Deciding to try his luck a second time, the doctor walked a stuporous Sherlock towards a pub he knew nearby and got the student in a seat with a pint in front of him with a surprisingly minimal amount of fuss.

      “Ok… I think… I think I’ve got some idea of what’s going on with you, but I know that there’s probably lots more that I haven’t gotten the right end of yet.  I can’t say that what you did is a good thing, Sherlock, because it’s not.  Not at all.  But, I can say that I think I see _why_ you did it, where your brain went that made you throw away that bit of good fortune.  Now, what we have to do is figure out how to minimize the damage.  And we _are_ going to have to go back to Greg’s flat, because I need to check on Mycroft, so we have to think of something before then.  Do you… do you have any ideas.”

Sherlock slowly shook his head and John wasn’t certain if he was relieved or even more concerned that Sherlock’s frantic energy had ebbed away.

      “Yeah, I don’t either.  We’ve still got some time, though.  Can you… will you talk to me about being up there?  What happened?”

Sherlock shrugged and finally took a sip of his drink.

      “It was… frustrating.  To be lectured to as if I were a child.  Mend your ways, Mr. Holmes.  That is not the way to live, Mr. Holmes.  We say what is right and that is the final word on the subject, Mr. Holmes…”

      “Sort of… that’s what you thought I was doing right before.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to for John to get the message.

      “Their sanctimony offended me.”

      “But their sanctimony came with mercy.  £100 was very reasonable of them.”

      “If you say so.”

      “I do.”

Another shrug and John relived that euphoric few minutes when Sherlock received his sentence and he, Mycroft and Greg shared a round of surreptitious grins, and sighs of relief.  It was the best possible outcome, but Sherlock had laughed at the value.  Maybe… maybe, on the inside, Sherlock _wasn’t_ laughing.  Wasn’t mocking or showing contempt.  Maybe he _did_ think it was too low.  Not enough of a punishment.  Not what he deserved.  Maybe, just maybe, that was part of this growing spiral of despair…

      “But what I think doesn’t matter.  And what’s done is done.  I’m sure… I’m sure Greg is already thinking of ways to pay off your fine, so if we can’t put together an idea, he’ll have the situation covered.  Greg’s good at that, coming up with solutions.  Helping people.  Probably why he became a policeman.”

      “He is striving to become a detective.  Lestrade has… he has taken steps to gain experience to make a possible shift in employment more feasible.”

      “Oh?  Then well done, Greg.  Taking charge is important when you really want something.  Nothing happens if you just sit there and wait.  And I’m sure he’s doing the same right now for this little problem.  Putting his whole brain into it.  Mycroft, too.”

John couldn’t fail to notice that none of that made Sherlock happy and, in his current frame of mind, it wouldn’t.  It would just make things worse.  Maybe it was time to just shut his mouth and drink.

      “He should not have to do that.”

Telling Sherlock he sounded very much like his brother right now would also not make his friend very happy.

      “I don’t disagree, but when a mate or family is trouble, that’s what you do.  He doesn’t want you to see any further trouble, so he’ll do what he has to so you don’t.  I know… I know it’s not what you might want, but that’s the way it is.”

If it was Greg’s fault he was in trouble, John was certain Sherlock would have no difficulty accepting the help.  When he was sure that his and Mycroft’s financial woes were purely from Mycroft’s ‘selfishness’ with his art, his friend gladly took everything he could from his brother’s bony fingers.  Now… now he knew the truth and accepting his brother’s support was a very different game.

      “He’ll find a way, though, Sherlock.  You said he…”

And here he went again.  Today was not John’s day to think properly.

      “… was going to help get your violin back, right?  He planned all of that and he’ll plan this.  Then this nightmare will be over and you won’t have to think about any of it again.  That’s providing… well…”

      “That I do not find myself again arrested.”

      “Yeah.  And I guess I should say that I do have a problem with you taking drugs.  I can’t tell you not to do it and I won’t try the tactic of threatening to break things off if you don’t stop, because it’s manipulative and controlling, but… I do have a problem with it.  Are you… are you still using?”

      “Not at this time, no.”

But there was finally a small bit of relief in Sherlock’s voice.  Apparently, John thought, he’d said the right thing for a change.

      “I’m happy to hear that.  Is there… if you ever need anyone to talk to about that, I mean in a professional sense, just ask and I can set that up for you.  Or… _I’m_ always willing to listen.”

Sherlock took a long sip of his beer and nodded.

      “I do not… it is not a compulsion that is always upon me.  Or ever upon me, really.  It is the boredom, John!  Everything is so boring!  Uni, the people there, my so-called research partners… Mycroft and his painting… it feels like a cold, dark blanket is laid upon my mind and everything inside begins to struggle to find the warmth and light again.  I need stimulation, challenge, purpose… without it, life is _intolerable_.”

John reached over and took Sherlock’s hand, because hearing the student’s voice crack on the last word broke John’s heart into a thousand pieces.

      “You’re saying that the drugs help.”

      “They make matters bearable.  If I had my violin… I have less urge to succumb to the chemical snare when I can play.”

And now getting his violin back had been pushed even farther into the future… John released Sherlock’s hand and leaned back in his chair, contemplating the seriousness of the dilemma.  If Sherlock continued on his current path, he’d be back on the needle soon, there was little doubt about that, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it, but try to be the support Sherlock needed, even if he didn’t necessarily want it.

      “Well, I’m not your violin, but I _am_ here for you.  Just to listen if you want to talk – no judgment, no advice, nothing but a friendly ear to hear what you have to say.  Or someone to talk _with_ if you do want my input.  Or someone to listen to when you don’t want to talk at all, but don’t want to be alone, either.”

Sherlock’s face was very difficult to read, but John decided to have faith that the emotion he saw there was partly because Sherlock was happy he had someone to turn to when he needed a shoulder to lean on that wasn’t… well, that wasn’t someone who was part of the problem right now.  Not that he _wasn’t_ , but not in the same way as Greg and Mycroft and he could only hope that would make a difference.  Sherlock downing the rest of his pint in one swallow, however, didn’t help the doctor know what the student was feeling.

      “And what do I do now?  Say thank you?”

John nearly snapped out a frustrated answer, then realized Sherlock’s tone wasn’t contemptuous.  It wasn’t nasty and arrogant.  If anything, it was _confused_.

      “Yes.  Yes, Sherlock… that’s all you have to do.  You’re not… nobody expects you to do anything more than just say thank you and mean it.”

      “That _cannot_ be all.”

      “It is!  There’s no… obligation on you, no debt you have to repay because someone does something kind for you.  A simple acknowledgement that you recognize their kindness and are grateful for it is enough.  Just as an ‘I’m sorry,’ when it’s honestly said, is the most powerful thing to do when you’ve messed up.  That’s why it’s the first thing you should tell Greg and Mycroft when we see them.  Say you’re sorry and mean it.  Mean that you feel terrible for what you did, that you see it was wrong, and that is going to ease a lot of their stress.  Remember how it helped Mycroft in hospital?  All you had to do was sincerely apologize and he felt much better.”

      “Truly?”

      “Yes!  I know, or, at least, I’m beginning to understand, how new this is for you, but… how do I put this… when people care, they don’t do so in hopes of gaining something from you.  They do it even if you have nothing to give.  The most they hope for, the most important thing they want is for you to understand how much they care and value their affection.  When you do something that hurts them, what they most want to know is that you regret doing it and know it was wrong.  And, I suppose, that if you cost them money or property, you should try your best you can get that back for them.  But that last part isn’t really expected, it’s just nice if you can.  They’ll understand if you are honestly sorry, but can’t fix the problem yourself.”

      “Truly?”

      “Is your hearing alright?  _Yes_ , Sherlock.  And nobody expects you to be perfect all of the time; what they expect is that you try to do the right thing and learn when you make mistakes.  As long as they know you’re honestly trying, forgiveness is a lot easier to grant.  Just try, Sherlock.  Say you’re sorry and try to avoid making this type of mistake again.  Greg and Mycroft will be upset right now and might be for awhile, but it will pass, sooner than you might think, and life will be back to normal.  If you want to speed that up, then do what you can to fix your problem, so there’s less for _them_ to do to sort this out.”

      “Try.”

      “Try.  That’s all anyone can ask of you.”

Sherlock stared at his empty glass them shot up from the table as if he’d had a nail driven into his bottom.

      “I must go.”

      “What?  Where are you going?”

      “To try.”

      “Oh.  Ok… can I come, too?”

Sherlock hesitated a moment, then extended his hand for John to take.  Another flurry of notes thrown onto the table preceded their race out of the pub to where, John had no idea.  However, he wasn’t exactly eager to ask and slow down wherever this burst of energy was taking them…

__________

John and Sherlock faced the door of Lestrade’s flat and neither one of them wanted to be the one to open it because they were very likely going to be either drowned in a deluge of tears or burned to a crisp by the dragon-fire of rage.  Maybe they’d get lucky and Lestrade would be raging, Mycroft would be crying and they would balance each other out.  Finally, John decided he’d be the adult and turn the knob, and flinched seeing Greg in the kitchen, looking like he’d been through the war.

      “WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN!”

      “Well… Sherlock and I…”

      “It’s been hours!  The moon’s nearly up for fuck’s sake!  Mycroft… I had him calmed down and now he thinks Sherlock’s gone off and overdosed somewhere and he can’t stop crying and he’s bleeding again and… I swear to god that if you’ve been somewhere shagging yourselves senseless I am going to put my boot so far up each of your arses that you’ll shit my socks for the next month!”

Lestrade was nearly frothing at the mouth and Sherlock felt no shame moving to stand behind John as they faced the furious PC.

      “That’s not it, mate.  I promise you… but, yeah… we did sort of lose track of time, but for a good reason.  Really, you’ll want to hear what Sherlock has to say.  You and Mycroft both.”

John hoped the worry wasn’t breaking through in his voice, because his concern for patient was skyrocketing.  He’d been so stupid, failing to even check in.  Mycroft could have had a mental breakdown and be in hospital right now…

      “Then get in there and say what you have to say.  Maybe that will help him pull himself back together.  Your brother’s so shattered right now, Sherlock, that I have no idea if I’m going to be able to find all the pieces, let alone stitch them back in their original pattern.  He was certain you were dead!  Dead with a needle in your arm…”

Lestrade suddenly sagged, leaning against a chair and John jumped forward to support him.  Another thing hadn’t once considered… even though he and Sherlock had talked about the drugs, it never occurred to the doctor that Mycroft and Greg would think Sherlock would return to his old habits after the morning’s outburst.  That was completely idiotic.  Today was just not his day for brilliance.

      “It’s ok, Greg.  It really is.”

      “John ensured that I made no foolish decisions in my absence.”

Which, to John, implied that without him Sherlock might have done something very foolish, indeed.

      “Thank god… thank god for that.  We were so _worried_.  I was about to see if some of my mates could go out to look for you, start calling the hospitals…”

      “I promise Greg… it was for a good cause.  Come on, Sherlock… let’s go and see Mycroft.”

John nodded to the student, who slowly started to walk towards the bedroom, then gave Lestrade a pat on the shoulder to try and reassure him that everything was fine.  Not that John himself would be sure of that until he saw his patient and learned if Sherlock’s news had come quickly enough to do Mycroft any good.

__________

Sherlock decided to tap softly on the bedroom door before entering and it was not only to buy an extra second before entering to see his brother.  Who was exactly as broken in appearance as the student had feared.  Mycroft’s face was streaked with tears and it looked as if he had been tearing at his hair, much as _he_ had earlier, as well as his clothes.  Art supplies were scattered around the room and Sherlock was shocked by the stab in the chest he felt to see one of Mycroft’s drawings, one he didn’t recognize, ripped in two and lying on the floor, as if it had been hurled there in a fit of rage.

      “Sherlock!  Oh… oh, Sherlock.  You are well…”

Mycroft started a bout of ragged, harsh weeping and Lestrade moved Sherlock aside to get to his distraught lover.

      “It’s alright, love.  Sherlock’s home and he’s fine.  He’s just fine…”

Holding Mycroft as carefully as he could, Lestrade glared at Sherlock and John and the implication was extraordinarily clear.  Mycroft was emotionally compromised, physically exhausted, highly fragile and if they said one thing to upset him further, someone wouldn’t be walking out of the bedroom alive.

      “I… it was remiss of John and I to leave you and Lestrade without word of our status and I apologize for that.  It was not appropriate to worry you in that fashion.”

Sherlock cut eyes towards John who smiled and motioned for him to continue.

      “And I also apologize for my conduct in court.  It was neither acceptable nor productive and there is no manner in which I can justify my actions.  I _am_ sorry, for I know the insult you suffered, as well as the distress.  You have both taken many actions to assist me and I did not properly respect those actions or behave in a fashion that expressed any gratitude for them.  My conduct today was inexcusable, but I hope that, in time, you might find yourselves able to forgive me for it.  I also hope…”

Sherlock looked again at John, who smiled more widely to encourage his friend to keep going.

      “… that this will facilitate that and lend credence to what I have said.”

Holding out a piece of paper to Lestrade, Sherlock held his breath as the PC took it, read it, then stared blankly at him.

      “How… how in the world?  What did you do?”

Lestrade passed the paper to Mycroft, who needed a little help holding the paper steady to read what was written.

      “Gregory… what does this mean?”

Stroking his artist’s hair, Lestrade gave Mycroft a soft kiss on his temple before taking back the paper.

      “I don’t honestly know.  It looks like his sentence was changed, but I don’t see how that’s possible.”

      “I apologized.”

Lestrade and Mycroft stared open-mouthed at Sherlock, who began to turn a pretty rose pink, prompting John to interject to spare the student further explanation.

      “Sherlock went back to the courthouse and found his solicitor, who put in a quick petition to have Sherlock address the court, citing unusual circumstances and a desire to make a formal apology to the magistrates.”

      “What unusual circumstances?  Sherlock… were you ill?  Did… did I not notice that you were ill?”

Lestrade continued to soothe Mycroft who, at the very least, was focused on his brother and not on the terrors that had been crawling through his brain for the past few hours.

      “Actually, it wasn’t him that was ill, Mycroft… it was you.  It helped that the magistrates noticed you when Greg and I helped you into the room and… well, please don’t take this poorly, but you _look_ sick. It wasn’t hard for Sherlock’s solicitor to convince them that your ‘illness’ had Sherlock under unusual stress and, with the court appearance, it disturbed Sherlock into behaving badly.  Which… which was actually sort of the case, but we can all talk about that later.  We had to wait until the end of the afternoon session, but they agreed to hear Sherlock’s apology and reconsider the sentence.  Not that he was let off with only his original fine, but you’d have been so proud!  Sherlock said he’d do unpaid work in service wherever they’d like to assign him for even an hour for every pound of his fine, if they’d reduce the monetary penalty.  They looked at your financial situation again and… well, Sherlock was sincere!  Anyone could see that!  He _was_ remorseful and they agreed that they’d reinstitute the original £100 fine, but gave him a community sentence of sixty hours, in addition to it.  And he _thanked_ them for it, too.”

John was beaming with pride at the end of his speech and Lestrade cracked what felt like his first smile that day.

      “Sherlock… I don’t know what to say.  Besides thank you, that is.  Mycroft and I were sick with worry, but I can’t say it wasn’t worth it.  I’m very proud of you, lad… so very, very proud.  And your brother is, too.  He just needs a moment before he can tell you himself.”

Mycroft pushed away from Lestrade, against whom he had been hiding his face and his newest round of the tears that were damnable, but uncontrollable, today.

      “I am p… perfectly able to tell my brother how proud of him I am, Gregory.  And I am, Sherlock… I truly am.  I was so terribly angry with you today, so bitter and hurt that I scarcely believed I could look at you when you returned home and not meet you with words I would hate myself for ever uttering, but… you have bested me.  But, please do not give me such a fright again and… I do hope you _are_ amenable to discussing today’s events so that we might understand the situation m…more fully.”

Sherlock nodded and swallowed down the large mass of tension that had been lodged in his throat since he walked into the bedroom.  He had wanted to believe John, wanted desperately to believe him, but an evil part of his mind refused to give in and have hope… apparently, he had best learn that he had areas in which to grow and that John was a respectable tutor to promote his education.

      “And we’ll do that on your own time, Sherlock.  Don’t feel like you have to talk about things if you’re not ready.  Mycroft and I don’t want you to feel pressured, not in the least.”

      “I am not averse to having that conversation tonight.”

Not that he wanted it, but leaving the matter unattended would gnaw at him like a termite in a piece of rotted wood.  And it would likely bring Mycroft peace of mind.  Something his brother obviously needed.

      “Then let’s make ourselves comfortable.  John, why don’t you keep Mycroft company while Sherlock and I get everyone something to drink?”

Though Lestrade’s motives were clear, no one commented, and Sherlock left the room quietly, following the PC towards the kitchen, leaving John and Mycroft alone in the bedroom.

      “Tell me how bad it is, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed and John reached out to clasp the artist’s hand.

      “That bad, huh?  Well, here’s _my_ apology… I’m very sorry for leaving you today.  That was criminally irresponsible of me and I won’t commit that crime again.”

      “I have survived the experience, John, so there is nothing to regret.  And I am far happier that you accompanied Sherlock and kept him safe.  Without you… I fear for where he would be now.  I did fear, actually…”

The ghosts that darkened Mycroft’s eyes saddened John deeply, but he held out hope that Sherlock wouldn’t give his brother cause for such grief again.  At least, not for this particular issue.

      “I know and so does Sherlock.  Now, let me take a look at you and I’m going to give you something for the pain.  Later, I’ll make sure you have something to help you sleep.  I think you’ll want to be awake for awhile to talk to your brother, but I do want you to have a full night’s rest tonight if it’s at all possible.”

      “I shall try.  But Sherlock, is he… have you learned something?  About his behavior?”

      “Yes, but I’ll let him talk about it.”

Mycroft nodded and finally found his own smile.

      “You are good for him, John.  Do not think I fail to recognize that fact.”

      “You’re not getting me to adopt him, Mycroft.”

      “Perish the thought.  It takes years of training to deal with his nappies, let alone properly prepare his bottle.  I shall, however, present you an instruction manual as your wedding gift.”

__________

Sherlock hadn’t taken three steps beyond the closed bedroom door before Lestrade took him in the most crushing hug of his life.

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart because I think we could have lost your brother if you hadn’t come home or… just thank you.”

Lestrade held on tightly until he felt he could let some of the brutal pressure in his chest finally ease.  They _would_ have lost Mycroft if today had ended the way he and his artist had begun to believe and nobody but him ever had to know about the minutes he spent in the loo losing the bit of dinner he’d tried to eat because the sourness in his stomach refused to let him hold down any food.

      “I am sorry that we worried you.”

      “It’s ok… it’s in the past, now.  And I’ll tell you again how proud I am of what you did.  That took a lot of courage, Sherlock.  And humility.  It means a lot to me and I know it means _everything_ to Mycroft.  You did a good job, lad.  A very good job.  And… look.”

Lestrade walked over to the table where the money he’d withdrawn from the bank sat waiting to be redeposited.  He took about half of it and put it in his pocket, handing the remainder to Sherlock. 

      “I get paid again soon and between what’s here and a little extra from that amount, we can get your violin back.  Take this and put it where it’s safe and we’ll pick up your instrument when I get my wages.  How does that sound?”

Sherlock stared at the money and found his tongue unwilling to form words, but he forced it to do so, nonetheless.

      “I do not deserve this.”

      “If you’d asked me this morning I would have agreed with you.  And if you came back here as a surly bastard that I had to live on noodles for the next year because of, I _still_ would have agreed with you.  But you showed me something important, Sherlock… you showed me that all the faith we’ve placed in you is justified.  You’re going to keep making mistakes, because you’re human and we all make mistakes, but you’ll step up and take responsibility for them.  Maybe not all the time, because that’s human, too, but… you’re not going to just let your mistakes stand because you don’t care enough of about any of us to make it worth your effort to correct them.  Now, let’s pour Mycroft a nice non-alcoholic wine… he had the real thing this morning, but don’t tell John… and the rest of us can finish off my scotch.  And whatever you want to say, Sherlock, know that you have our support and attention.  Right now, things are hard for all of us and there’s a lot rolling around in all our heads, don’t think you’re alone in that.  If it helps, you and I can talk about some of mine, just not when Mycroft’s around because he doesn’t need additional worries.”

      “Yours?”

      “I’ve chosen a path that is incredibly difficult and I have no idea if I’m up to it.  Mycroft needs so much right now and so do you and I’m not completely confident that I have what is necessary to keep giving you what you need. And I snapped at Mycroft this morning because I felt so overwhelmed that everything was on my shoulders again and it fucking felt like my legs were going to buckle.  Don’t think I’m frolicking through my days, Sherlock.  I’m fretting and fussing and dancing as fast as I can to keep us ahead of the avalanche and yes, my own brain starts to rumble and roll sometimes.  Why don’t you and I set aside some time and we can talk about some things without having to tiptoe around Mycroft so we don’t upset him.  Would you like that?”

As painful as it was to admit, Sherlock had to confess that he would.

      “It is not an entirely disagreeable suggestion.”

      “Great!  Now, let’s get today officially settled and closed, so we can start fresh tomorrow.  It’s going to feel good, don’t you think?”

Lestrade started pulling out glasses and Sherlock hoped the distraction kept the PC from seeing the grin that suddenly committed treason and made itself visible on his lips.  A fresh day, knowing he had the forgiveness of the people with whom he shared his life.  It shouldn’t make him feel so… secure… but right now, he didn’t have the incentive to investigate the situation further.  For once, he could enjoy the data without pondering the experiment…


	32. Chapter 32

Lestrade didn’t know how long he had been staring at his lover, but he frankly didn’t care.  Mycroft was gorgeous.  And, deep asleep due to some of John’s medicinal assistance, he was both gorgeous and peaceful, something that, as of yesterday morning, Lestrade despaired of ever seeing again.  What a crazy day it had been… he honestly wasn’t certain that if Sherlock had come home an hour later there would have been any salvaging his lover.  Mycroft had been inconsolable, burning in guilt and pain and betrayal… but after they had their conversation with Sherlock, there had been such a wash of relief through his lover’s body that it was almost like watching a fire finally being doused by a long rain of cold water, some of it in the form of Mycroft’s own tears.  When the conversation was over, John had tossed everyone out of the bedroom for a chance to talk to his patient and give him a more thorough examination, then shared his perceptions that, despite the shredding he’d taken, Mycroft was ok and _would_ rebound, at least to the state he’d occupied before accompanying Sherlock to court.  It might take awhile, but nothing permanent would likely come out of the chaos and that was a relief that the PC was happy to see mirrored on Sherlock’s own face.

And poor Sherlock… it made sense now, in the strange and bizarre way things did with the Holmes brothers.  One thing Lestrade knew, it was that he had to start paying better attention to Sherlock so things never got this far out of hand again.  Get a stronger understanding of the boy’s moods and signals so he could head off another explosion before it erupted.  This time, they’d been lucky John had been with them and the good doctor had earned himself a good night out in thanks for being there for Sherlock and caring enough to help the idiot through the upheavals that were peppering his life.  If John had not been there yesterday and decided to confront Sherlock… all of Mycroft’s fears could easily have come true.  As much as he and his artist could do for Sherlock, there were some things that were handled better by a friend…. or whatever the two young men officially were now… than family and he could only hope and pray that John was content with what he and Sherlock had and willing to stay around for a very long time.

With Mycroft’s consciousness nowhere in sight, Lestrade quietly got out of bed and started preparations to leave for the day, which was something he certainly did not want to do.  Mycroft needed support and reassurance today and the person staying home to give it wasn’t, perhaps, the one best suited for the job.  But, Sherlock _had_ shown he could rise to the challenge when necessary, so maybe that was unfair.  He’d still be happier if John was here, though, but he was working today and wouldn’t be by until later in the evening.

      “Scurrying about like a frightened mouse does you little credit, Lestrade.”

The voice of the day’s Mycroft minder.

      “Trying not to wake you, thank you very much.  Oh wait, that should be you saying thanks to me.  My mistake.”

Sherlock’s snort made Lestrade laugh almost as much as the tousled head peering at him from over the back of the sofa.

      “I have been awake for hours.”

      “I doubt that since you only went to sleep a few hours ago.”

      “With the boredom, it has felt like endless hours.”

      “You have your books, the telly, a city to take a walk in… boredom shouldn’t be a big problem right now.”

      “Boredom is my natural state in this dreary human existence.”

      “Very philosophical of you.  Does it hurt when your philosophy crashes into your sciencey thoughts and gives your brain a knock?”

      “Will you be leaving soon or shall I feel more of my brain dying from your grotesque attempts at humor?”

      “Just need a little coffee and some food in my stomach.  Oh, look at how wide your eyes got.  Let me guess… you want breakfast, too.”

      “Food is inconsequential.”

      “Breakfast for one, then.”

      “Being inconsequential does not equate to being undesired.”

      “Oh, another of those philosophical things.  You might have to give me some form of sign that you’re practicing your philosophy and not actually saying something I should pay attention to.”

Lestrade pulled down two plates and cups and began crafting a quick and filling breakfast, while Sherlock dragged his body off of the sofa with as much visible bother and burden as he could display.  Dropping into one of the kitchen chairs, the student fiddled with the cutlery in front of him, before broaching the topic that had been on his mind for the not-quite-hours he had been awake.

      “Is Mycroft… well?”

Sherlock couldn’t see the PC’s pleased smile and Lestrade was happy for it.  Sherlock would probably be embarrassed and that would make him hesitate asking that type of question again.

      “I think so.  He’s not awake, so I haven’t talked to him, but he was in much better spirits when he fell asleep last night.  And John raised his pain medication, so that should help with the extra physical ache because of yesterday’s stress.  Make sure he takes his pills, ok?  Don’t believe him if he says he doesn’t need them because he’ll be lying like a politician.”

      “I will ensure that he takes his medication on the prescribed schedule.  However…”

      “Don’t worry, Sherlock, he’s not angry with you.  Neither of us are angry anymore.  We’re proud of you for what you did and I know Mycroft’s heart was about to burst when he found out you stepped up to take responsibility for your actions.  It would be a good idea to take it easy with him today, though.  I know how you two interact and I’m not saying do anything differently than normal, but don’t go out of your way to agitate him.  He’s going to be ok, but that doesn’t mean he’s not torn apart right now.  Everything about him took a beating yesterday and I’d like it if he could get some rest, both physically and mentally.”

      “I shall see that he is not distressed.  I have reading to attend to and he will likely want to spend the day practicing some form of his art.  Barring your landlord commencing your eviction, I cannot foresee anything that will upset him unduly.”

      “Rent’s been paid, so no eviction today unless you decide to have a party that needs me and my mates to come out and clean up.”

      “I could not desire such an unsettling waste of time any less.”

      “Good, then a pleasant day should be had by all.  But leave a message for me if anything happens, ok?  And if it’s really bad, just get an ambulance or…”

      “Would you please leave so I no longer have to suffer the burden of hearing the blather coming out of your mouth?”

Lestrade shoveled the last few bites of his breakfast into his mouth and washed it all down with the remainder of his coffee.

      “Anything for you, Sherlock.  Have a nice day.”

      “As if that is possible.”

The PC put his dirty plate and cup next to Sherlock, much to the student’s displeasure and whistled as he walked out the door of the flat.

      “Oh dear, I’ve suddenly forgotten how to wash dishes.  I suppose Lestrade will simply have to tend to it when he returns.”

Sherlock finished his own breakfast and put all of the dishes into the sink, arranging the items artistically, not at all to potentially implicate his brother in the act of defiance.  Taking a moment to tend to basic matters of hygiene, Sherlock returned to the sofa with his books and if he hadn’t been considering a cup of tea, he might not have even heard the sound of the bedroom door opening an hour later.

      “This is not sanctioned.  Return to bed.”

      “I am afraid that Gregory’s sheets would not fare well in the aftermath.”

Heaving a dramatic sigh any thespian would envy, Sherlock dragged himself off of the couch and hoped that when he caught sight of Mycroft his upset didn’t show too sharply on his face.  His brother should _not_ be out of bed.

      “You appear deceased.”

      “Excellent.  That matches well with the way I currently feel.”

      “Here… let me help.”

It took the student a few moments to decide how best to escort his brother to the loo and finally settled on allowing Mycroft to hold onto his arm as they walked.  However, the terminus of the journey brought a difference of opinion.

      “You will allow me to assist.”

      “No.”

      “Lestrade will not be pleased if you collapse next to his toilet, fracturing your skull on the porcelain.”

      “I shall only be a moment, Sherlock.”

      “Modesty does not become you, Mycroft.”

      “I am perfectly capable of urinating without help!”

      “Since I have seen no evidence of that, I shall not take your likely duplicitous word on faith.  Besides, you have halitosis.”

      “Something else I shall tend to during my endeavors.”

      “I doubt you can successfully manage staying upright while wielding a moving toothbrush.”

      “I shall use small and tender strokes.”

      “Spare me your pathetic sexual innuendo.”

      “If I was indulging in innuendo, I can assure you I would not have used the term _small_.”

      “I am nearly paralyzed with disgust.”

      “Good, then I might enjoy my small interlude without you in audience.”

      “No.  I promised Lestrade that I would prevent your untimely demise and I shall not renege on that promise… at least, until he frees my violin from incarceration.”

      “How very strategic of you.”

      “Compliments will not spare you your fate.  If it assuages your worries, I shall avert my eyes from any act or body part that makes me queasy to view.”

      “Always with the kind word and noble intention.  Thank you, Sherlock.  I believe this shall serve as exceptional inspiration to take up my paints and not leave my bed again until nightfall.”

      “Then I consider this a welcome cross to bear.”

__________

Helping his brother with his basic morning rituals was as traumatic for Sherlock as it was for Mycroft, who had to spend several minutes calming his brother’s indignant pouting when a stray bit of toothpaste foam dared to land on the younger Holmes’s hand.  However, Mycroft would happily bear the trauma for its root was one that made his heart sing softly in his chest.  Sherlock was demonstrating such admirable, encouraging growth.  His brother would never be a warm, demonstrative individual, but that was not necessary.  That he was willingly becoming part of something larger than himself was not something to be ignored, rather it should be celebrated.  Especially if Sherlock was not aware of the celebration so his contrary side could rear its head and rain on their proverbial parade.

When the artist was as freshened as he could be without a shower, not something either he or Sherlock was prepared to attempt, the slow journey was made back to the bedroom to get Mycroft settled in the bed with his supplies.

      “I assume you have taken your pain medication.”

      “Not as of yet, no.  John was very generous with his pharmaceuticals last evening and I have yet to feel the worst of my condition.  I shall have another dose when the current formulation begins to wane.”

      “No.  You will take it now and I shall watch you do it.”

      “Now, see here…”

      “Your propensity for deception is legendary.  Take your medication, Mycroft.  I would rather not have to force the issue, but I assure you I will and victory shall be mine to savor.”

Mycroft glared at Sherlock until he couldn’t help but chuckle and laughed harder when his brother joined in.

      “Very well, I bow to your strength of will.”

A wave of his hand bought Sherlock retrieving his pill container and pouring him some water from the small pitcher at his bedside.

      “I shall set an alarm to alert me when you require your next dose.”

      “That will not be necessary.”

      “Once you are floating in the rather dank cloud of obliviousness that descends upon you when you paint, the flat erupting into a fireball would not gain your notice.”

      “Hmmm… you do have a point.  Very well, but do not inconvenience yourself on my account.”

      “I do not plan to.  I must complete the papers I must write so that I might play nanny for you and the deadline looms.  The writing, in addition to the bouts of unconsciousness due to crippling boredom, shall easily occupy a full day of time.”

      “Then by all means, let me not detain you any further.”

Sherlock started to leave, then reconsidered, feeling a small niggle of unease in his chest that he had to address if he wanted to focus on his own work.

      “Is there… do you need anything?  Breakfast or, perhaps, a cup of tea?”

Mycroft was readying himself to decline Sherlock’s offer, but there was a look in his brother’s eye that changed his mind.

      “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

      “I shall also make toast.”

      “I am not, at this time…”

      “In a condition that would not benefit from the minimal amount of energy provided by bread.  You will eat your toast.”

Said so emphatically that Mycroft had no choice but to smile and nod.

      “Good.  I will return.”

As his brother left the bedroom, the older Holmes closed his eyes and waited for the medication to ease further the stabs of sharp, cutting pain and dull, penetrating aches that controlled his body.  The simple morning ablutions had ravaged him, but he was confident Sherlock was unaware of the severity of his distress, for he had spent a lifetime hiding his true condition from his brother’s notice.  Sherlock did not need this knowledge… the boy had suffered enough for his sins, no more was necessary.  As it always did, the pain would ebb, his body would rebuild and this would be nothing but a memory.  But today, perhaps, he might do something with his pain besides endure its claws and teeth.  Today… he would use his pain as inspiration.  It was not something, oddly, that he had ever consciously explored.  He had always found his spark in the pleasanter aspects of life and maybe that, in itself, was telling.  His work was not dark, there was no agony… but there was also no ecstasy.  The unbridled joy of life and love and desire… only in his most recent works, those for which his mind had caressed the memories of his dearest love, did it rise to those heights.  His work was always suffused with light, but not with a vital thrum of energy or any consuming vibrance.  Others might not agree, but he knew it to be the truth.  To rise to that level… he must explore the opposite.  Today would be the first step on that path, but… perhaps only a small step for the moment…

Mycroft wavered between what Sherlock would call his finger paints and crayons and finally settled upon his much-adored graphite pencils and fresh sketchpad with a lovely vellum surface for which his Gregory had laid in a bountiful supply.  Bountiful, for him, at least.  To have several sketchpads at once, waiting patiently for his hand, was a bliss he was incapable of properly expressing.  Riches for him meant such a different thing than for most and his love was elated to provide him with the wealth he cherished beyond gold or jewels.  The box at his bedside had never seen such an abundance of supplies.  Luxury, that was the only word for it.  Decadence was appropriate, also.  Supplies, time and inspiration… for as wrenching as had been yesterday, today was a very different creature.  And one that was ready to launch out of the gate…

__________

Mycroft minding was tedious, but Sherlock had to admit it was not an entirely unwieldy burden.  A cup of tea now and again, a few biscuits and a reminder to take his medication was really all that was necessary, which allowed plenty of time to complete his pointless assignments, as well as some reading on matters of consequence to his work.  And… think about John.  Yesterday, John had followed him.  Followed, not run away, though that is what he had assumed anyone would do after such ill treatment.  John had also said he cared.  Perhaps it was the heat of the moment, but John _had_ said that and now it was up to him to decide what it meant and what would be the appropriate response.

      “If I was a burglar, we’d be eating our dinner on the floor with our fingers.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the returned-home PC and closed the book he was not reading while thinking about John.

      “You used a key in the door and your gait is easy to recognize.  If you exercised the talents you are supposed to possess as the detective you aspire to become, you would not be surprised that I was prepared for your arrival and properly ignored it.”

      “Not bad.  Ever think about joining the force?”

      “If my stomach held any contents worth expurgating, I would provide you with the fullest possible answer to your question.”

      “Just a thought.  You’re pretty adept at noticing things and you’ve got a clever mind.  You could do a lot of good with that talent.”

      “Boring.”

      “Ok, let me know if you change your mind.  Want to tell me how your day was or is that boring, too?”

Lestrade tossed his jacket over the back of a kitchen chair and raided his beer supply, raising a second in offer to Sherlock, who shook his head no.

      “Productive, though boring is not inappropriately applied.  I completed the papers I was maliciously mandated to write and served as a waiter at Mycroft’s whim.”

      “Sounds good.  Mycroft give you a lot of whim or was he lost in his own little world most of the time?”

      “He was a surprisingly accommodating taskmaster.  In truth, if I did not force him to take some fluids and what food he was willing to swallow, I am not certain if his mind would ever have marked anything beyond his crayons and paper.”

      “Well, that’s something I like to hear.  Good for him working on his art all day.  I wish I could convince him to do that even after he heals… we’re not doing badly with only my wages for support.  I was thinking about it today and I may not even need a second job now that we’ve got your court appearance behind us.  The budget I came up with works pretty well and I’d rather have a little less extra cash than spend less time at home.  I’ll see how things go these next few weeks and decide one way or another.  It’s not pressing, though, and that’s a weight off my mind.”

      “Mycroft would not agree to be a kept man.”

      “I know, it’s just wishful thinking on my part.  Not the ‘kept man,’ part, but the part about him being able to concentrate on his art all day and not have the distraction of trying to earn his own wage.  He’s got a rare gift, Sherlock, and he should be able to exercise it without having to worry about petty things like paying rent.”

      “I agree that those with extraordinary abilities, like myself, should not be burdened with day-to-day domestic concerns.  That is what individuals like you are born to do.”

      “Born into slavery to a poncy little bastard… not really the way I pictured my life going.”

      “Of course not… the mule does not anticipate the grain sacks until they are laid upon him.”

      “Lovely.  I think I’ll go and check on Mycroft and see if he needs any of my grain.”

      “Then you may begin preparing dinner.”

      “Are your arms broken?”

      “Not that I have noticed.”

      “Then the kitchen is all yours.”

      “Very well.  Of course, you will be the one consuming what I create.”

      “You’re going to poison me, aren’t you?”

      “Not intentionally, however, I cannot foresee every possible side effect of whatever experiments might take my fancy while I am involved in the food preparation process.”

      “Wonderful.  Could you at least take the chicken out of the refrigerator, put a little salt and pepper on it?  Maybe start the oven heating?”

      “You want me to fondle cold chicken flesh?”

      “I didn’t say molest the poultry, just give it a quick sprinkle on each side.”

      “How am I to flip it over without physical contact?”

      “Sherlock, I know for a fact that you are not this squeamish.”

      “I would rather manhandle a human corpse.”

      “Fine… put some water to boil for pasta, then.”

      “But, now I want chicken.”

      “Christ almighty… I’m going to check on Mycroft.  I’ll say a little prayer to the dinner fairies and maybe they’ll do the cooking for us.”

      “Begin your incantation immediately.  I am suddenly famished.”

Lestrade shook his head, but couldn’t help but grin once his face was out of Sherlock’s line of sight.  Pain in the arse… however, it was familiar and normal and that was its own blessing right now.  Tapping lightly on the bedroom door and getting the lack of response he expected, Lestrade peeked around the edge after cracking it open and smiled broadly at what he saw.  Mycroft propped up in bed with the otherworldly stillness to his face that said he was deep in the world of his art.  It was as if the only thing that existed was his mind, his soul and his hands.  But, a quiet creeping into the room breached the walls of that personal walled kingdom and he won the reward of his lover’s gentle, contented smile.

      “Ah, Gregory.  I did not hear you enter.”

      “Actually, I hoped you wouldn’t notice me at all, so I could sit in the corner over there and watch you work.”

      “Perish the thought… if you wish to watch me work, I would prefer you do so in comfort.  Join me?”

Mycroft patted the bed and Lestrade gladly toed off his shoes and stretched out next to his partner.

      “In truth, had you arrived earlier, I may not have noted your arrival, but… this piece has given all it can to the truth it strives to present.”

The sketchpad was handed over to the PC who felt his breath knocked from his lungs seeing the dark and disturbing intensity of the piece.

      “Mycroft... this is actually making my skin craw… wait.  Ok… let me look at this a little longer…”

There was always that image in a film or illustration in a book of the lone, creepy tree that gave you the chills without knowing anything about its story.  It had one, though… you knew it did.  It _had_ to because if there was one picture of pure darkness that everyone recognized, that was it.  Devastation, loss, sadness, agony, evil… that was all in the tree he was looking at now.  With a few pencils, his lover had captured its ancient reeking blackness in every twist of its limbs and broken curve of its trunk.  Even the soil from which it grew was broken as if the roots were knotted in pain and desperate to escape the choking grip of the dirt that surrounded them.  The whole composition was exceedingly disturbing except… except there were tiny, almost unnoticeable lighter bumps at the tips of only a few branches of the tree…

      “Are those… those are buds!”

Mycroft shining eyes broke the cold grip of the piece on Lestrade’s gut and he found himself laughing an almost cathartic laugh at his relief.

      “The piece spoke to you?”

      “Spoke… it was like it _possessed_ me.  Really, I felt like I was standing in the shadow of that evil thing feeling my life being drained away.  But those little buds…”

      “Escaped your notice?”

      “Yes!  It wasn’t until… until I really tried to turn away, to jump out of that shadow and feel a little sun on my face that I saw them.  That was… ok, that was fucking weird, but… but I still want to dive back in and stare at that tree until my eyes burn out.  This is… wow.  I don’t even know what to say because _amazing_ isn’t enough and the damn thing still feels like its stealing my soul.  Probably to feed those little buds, the bastard.”

Mycroft took the sketchpad away and laid it down so his drawing was hidden from view, marveling at the way his lover’s body noticeably relaxed when it was out of sight.  To see his Gregory so profoundly affected by his work was the ultimate prize for his day of highly uncomfortable reflection.  He had wanted that reflection to be expressed in all of its monstrous power and it seemed he had accomplished that very successfully.

      “And you would not be entirely incorrect.  Sometimes one must suffer the threat to one’s soul for there to be growth away from the darkness.  And there is no guarantee that growth will not simply be another broken, diseased limb that forever fails to find the light it seeks.”

Lestrade looked at his lover with very real concern in his heart, but, oddly, Mycroft was smiling quite happily after his little speech.

      “I am not suffering a depressive event, my love… I simply dipped my toes into murkier waters than I am normally comfortable exploring and… I achieved what I hoped to achieve.  That you have been stirred by my work is proof that I rendered properly what I found inside myself with a single peek into that particularly cold and shadowy well.”

      “Want to talk about it?”

      “Not at this time.  In truth, there is little to tell as my focus was terribly narrow and proximal to the present.  However… perhaps later, if you are willing to listen.”

      “I’m always willing to listen, Mycroft.  I don’t care what it is you want to talk about, I am _always_ willing and ready to listen.”

And he was, that much Mycroft knew as another truth of his life.  Gregory had never turned away from him, no matter how vile and despicable were the things he disclosed.  In him, there was trust and with him, there was safety.  No matter how deep the dive into his own personal ocean of despair, there would always be a warm and gentle touch to welcome him back to shore.

      “Something which I still find scarcely possible to believe, yet I cherish it deeply.”

      “And I cherish _you_ , so we’re even.  So, even with the devil tree, you’re happy with your day?”

      “Most assuredly.  The inspiration was not a pleasant one, but I am satisfied with the outcome… though it might not be something that anyone would desire to display on their wall.”

      “Well, I know one person who would and you’re looking at him.  I have a feeling that every time I’d see that piece, it would make me think and feel and that’s a good thing, in my opinion.  It’s something that would give me a push in a direction I might not like, but that doesn’t mean it’s not an important direction… one I should stroll along now and then.”

Mycroft reached up and stroked Lestrade’s cheek, overcome for a moment by his wonder and love for his partner.  No one had ever understood him or spared a thought for the nature of his art and what he envisioned or hoped to achieve until he met his dearest Gregory.  No one viewed his work as integral to his very being until his love entered his life.  If he were to speak his heart, he would tell this glorious man that if not another soul saw his work, he would be content because he minded not a bit baring his soul only for the person who held its deed in his hands.  But, looking into those brilliant brown eyes, he knew his Gregory was already fully aware of that fact and absolutely delighted by it.

      “Here, let me look at it again.”

      “Are you certain?”

      “I am.  This time, I want you to tell me what you did.  I like learning about how you make things like that.  It’s magic to me, love, but I don’t mind a look behind the smoke and mirrors to see how it’s done.”

      “Oh, very good… an apt way to describe what I do.  It _is_ smoke and mirrors, to some degree.  Using tools and tricks to create the perception and emotion I desire to portray.   I shall be happy to reveal all my secrets to such an eager audience.”

      “No matter how many tricks you use, there’s still real magic there, though, and you’ll never convince me otherwise.”

      “I would never try for how dull would the world be without a little magic?”

      “I wouldn’t want to live in it.”

      “Then I shall work wonders for you each and every day.”

      “You already do, Mycroft.  And I love you for it.”

__________

Chicken.  Was there a more unappealing thing than the pale, clammy flesh of a dead, naked, dismembered chicken?  No… there was not…

Sherlock stood in front of the open refrigerator, staring at the raw nightmare and, when his mental powers failed to levitate it onto the counter, closed the door and tried to put the vision of its mockery out of his mind.  Fortunately, the knock at the door distracted him from wasting energy trying to purge his brain of the past few minutes.

      “John.”

      “Well, your eyes still work.  That’s a point in your favor.  How about earning another one by showing me your lips still work, too.”

Sherlock’s confusion was the cutest thing John had ever seen and it was almost a shame to clarify matters by drawing Sherlock’s head down to take the kiss he’d been anticipating since he saw Lestrade’s building come into view as he walked off the effects of a very tiring shift.

      “That’s the hello I was hoping for.  Can I come in?”

      “Can you cook chicken?”

      “Uh… yes?”

      “Then you may come in.”

      “And if I said no?”

      “I would still grant you entrance, but you would have to wade through my disappointment to cross the threshold.”

      “Oh… lucky me, then.”

John walked into the flat and laughed as Sherlock darted forward to open the refrigerator and point to the package of chicken.

      “Ok, I get it.  You’re hungry.”

      “Lestrade said he would cook, but he has yet to emerge from the bedroom.”

      “Good for him.  Looks like he and Mycroft are having a nice time.”

      “They are not having sex, if that is what you are implying.”

      “I was and how do you know they’re not?”

      “I listened at the door.”

      “That’s rude, just so you know.”

      “Rude is promising me chicken, then falling into pointless conversation with my brother.”

      “Young love… makes your heart sing.”

      “Makes _my_ stomach upset.

      “Let them have their little after-work domestic time, Sherlock.  Once Mycroft’s up and about, they’ll be doing that in here and you can join in.”

      “Now my stomach acid is dissolving the epithelial tissue.  I do not think I am long for this world.”

      “You should take a few drama classes.  I think you’d be great on the stage.”

      “I think you should be cooking.”

      “Already I’m the wife.  Perfect.”

Which fit interestingly into Sherlock’s thoughts for the day.

      “You are a comely wife, if that salves your distress over gender roles.”

Now, that was something that surprised John to no end, but he wasn’t one to refuse a compliment, no matter how strange.

      “Thank you.  For that, I’ll make my mum’s roasted vegetables to serve with your chicken.  See if we still have some potatoes and carrots.  Parsnips are good, too.  And what’s green in there?”

      “Besides the mold on the cheese?”

      “Throw that out.  Greens, Sherlock.  Nice green vegetables to put vitamins in your blood.”

      “There is… some form of leafy plant.”

      “Ok, then you can work on salad, while I get the rest ready to put in the oven.  What do we have for bread?”

That was two uses of ‘we’ in this conversation and Sherlock stowed them away for further analysis.  Actually, he was putting this entire scene away for further analysis because… it was intriguing.  He hated kitchen work, but he was _not_ hating working with John in the kitchen.  Very, very curious…

      “We have… assorted odds and ends.”

Notice John, that ‘we’ can be used _at_ you as well as _by_ you.

      “Good enough.  I think we’ll have a feast even with mongrel bread on the table.”

Handing Sherlock a bowl for the as-yet-identity-unknown leafy vegetable, John started seasoning the chicken and peeling/cutting the vegetables for their dinner.  And he was not going to linger on the thought that this was the perfect way to end a hard day.  Puttering around the kitchen, sharing the task of putting food on the table and unwinding with a bit of light conversation that leeched some of the fatigue out of his bones.  It was entirely too domestic a feeling to dwell on seriously right now.  Definitely not in dwelling territory yet for this relationship.  Not at all.  Not anywhere close to appropriate to dwell.  At least not seriously.  Much.

      “And how was your day, Sherlock?”

The most possible domestic question to ask a person helping you make dinner.  Wonderful.

      “Stultifying, but acceptable.  Mycroft blessedly required little pampering leaving me free to tend to far more important matters.”

      “Oh good.  Glad you two made it through the day without overtaxing each other.  How’s he doing, anyway?”

      “Adequate.  I ensured he maintained his schedule for his pain medication, assisted with his hygiene and required that he eat biscuits with every cup of tea I provided him.  He… it was a struggle for him to do much when he was out of the bed, but those times were mercifully few.”

      “About what I would expect, so I’m satisfied.  Yesterday was brutal for his physical wellbeing and I knew today would be a challenge.  It sounds like you did a great job managing the situation, though, so congratulations.”

      “Did you expect anything else?”

John laughed and flung a piece of potato peel at Sherlock’s nose.

      “No, so take the compliment graciously and throw that potato peel in the bin.  While you’re at it, hand me some oil.”

      “None of that in the kitchen you miserable deviant.  Food goes on that table, not your back.”

Lestrade grinned at Sherlock’s disgusted snort and shared hand-signal greetings with John.

      “I’m surprised you’ve not been arrested for crimes against humor, Greg.  Really, you murder a joke like a champion.”

      “I’m a man of many talents.  And is that chicken I see?  Sherlock, did you use your manly wiles to get John to touch the chicken for you?”

      “I am also a man of many talents.”

      “And we’re all happy for it because that means dinner is on its way.  John, anything I can do to help?”

      “Keep Sherlock company while I check on Mycroft?  Did you leave him with any clothes on or am I going to have to fight through your idea of fashion to take a look at his bumps and bruises?”

      “Sorry about that, but I put everything back where I found it once I had my way with him.”

Sherlock’s gagging brought a sympathetic pat on the back from Lestrade while John made his exit towards the bedroom, entering after hearing Mycroft’s comfortingly strong and cheerful ‘come in.’

      “And to think I believed Greg when he said he shagged you to exhaustion.”

      “Really, John, Gregory is nothing if not chivalrous.  Such debauchment would be terribly inappropriate with Sherlock still likely to make an impromptu entrance to our boudoir.”

      “True, that would probably send him to an asylum for a cozy few weeks.”

      “Undoubtedly.  And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

      “Look at you hoping I’m not wearing my doctor’s hat.  Too bad, because I am.  At least for the moment.  First I was in my chef’s hat and now it’s my doctor’s hat and then it’ll be back in my chef’s hat because I don’t trust either Greg or Sherlock to look after my lovely dinner properly.”

      “Oh, did Sherlock bully you into preparing the evening meal?”

      “No, he just looked so lost and pitiful in the kitchen that I had to step in and end his misery.”

      “That was kind of you… Sherlock’s dissolution when presented with a household task is truly a sight to break one’s heart.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.  But, I do want to know how you’re doing today.  You took a beating yesterday, Mycroft.  I just want to make sure you didn’t get set back because of it.”

      “I assure you I am fine, John.  A bit tired and I will admit to an additional measure of pain when the medication fades and its voice is able to be heard, however… it has not debilitated me to the point where I have become concerned.”

      “Good to know.  Mind if I take a quick look, though?  Nothing invasive, I promise.”

John hated that the light dimmed slightly in Mycroft’s eyes, but there was nothing for it.  He had an obligation to his patient, whether it made that patient happy or not.  But, there was no reason to make this worse than it really had to be…

      “Just a quick look at your knee and a listen to your breathing should be enough.”

And a bit of light flowed back into Mycroft’s face.  Maybe that was the most important thing to know now.  Mycroft had a decent day and that was absolutely not guaranteed after yesterday’s debacle.

      “I believe I can accommodate your wishes.”

      “Alright then.  Let me see…”

John wasn’t exactly happy with the state of Mycroft’s damaged knee, but his lungs sounded good, which, ultimately, was the higher priority issue.

      “I’d like to see you stay off your feet as much as possible, for awhile.  Crutches wouldn’t actually be a bad idea for a week or two, but I’m not sure how well you can handle them with your ribs.”

      “I am certain Gregory will be happy to provide additional physical support when I must leave the bed.”

      “Sherlock seems to be rising to the task, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

      “He is and I am both delighted by and proud of the fact.  Today would have been far more difficult were it not for his assistance.”

      “He seems proud of himself, too.  He’s learning a lot about himself and much of what he’s learning is surprising him, I think.”

      “I agree and I could not be more pleased.”

      “So you and he had a quiet day… anything to show for it?”

      “Are you hoping for a peek at my latest piece?”

      “If you don’t mind.”

      “Are you asking for personal or professional reasons?”

His patient was far too clever for his own good, but there was no use trying to lie.  Mycroft would know and that would not be helpful for their working relationship.

      “Both, actually.”

      “Very well.  I would ask, however, that you do not leap to judgment.”

Mycroft retrieved his sketchpad and opened it to the day’s work, handing it to John with a smile, which grew larger seeing the doctor’s visceral reaction to the piece.

      “I see you are impacted by my work.”

      “Impacted doesn’t come close, Mycroft.  This is… ok, not leaping to judgment, but…”

      “I assure you that I am well today, John.  One does not have to be drowning in the darkness to explore its depths.”

      “Ok… I’ll take your word for it.  This… this is profound, Mycroft.  Really, I can’t imagine how you can create something so powerful.  You have a talent I truly can’t fathom, but I’m glad there are people like you in the world so the rest of us can experience it.”

      “Thank you, John.  That means a great deal to me.”

And it did, that much John easily read in Mycroft’s features.  To have his work appreciated was obviously something important to the artist, not for its beauty, necessarily, but for its effect on the viewer.  It was his statement, his voice and John could only hope that Mycroft’s voice could be heard someday by more than the few people in their little circle.  Today, however, he was content to have only a few hear this particular message, which was not something that was easy to assimilate.

      “Can I ask though… what made you draw this today?”

      “A conscious decision to look into areas of myself I normally do not examine.  I hurt this morning; I experienced the vast and varied spectrum of pain, which in and of itself is not unknown to me, but I have never probed further into the nature of such pain and what it exposes.  What it sparks and quickens inside of me.”

      “You’ve known… you’re familiar with physical pain in your life.”

Something John knew, but hoped he could prompt his patient to discuss further.

      “Oh yes, we are old acquaintances.  For many reasons and to greater and lesser extents.”

      “Sherlock said you would accept what happened to you philosophically.  That this wasn’t new to you.”

      “And he was correct.  By choice or happenstance… perhaps not everyone would see matters in such a way, but I have learned that one cannot allow minor issues to permanently disable one’s life.  It is cowardly, at best, and defeatist, at worst.  This shall pass, as always it does, and I shall remain to continue on my path.”

John truly had no idea if that was a healthy outlook or a frightening one and was happy he’d spent some time today in conversation with several individuals trained to make just that assessment. 

      “I was going to tell you anyway, but I found someone I think would be a good fit for you to talk to once you feel a little stronger.  Would you be willing to let them see the sketches you did in hospital, along with this one?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t seem entirely opposed to the idea.

      “If you think it would be helpful.”

      “I do, actually.  Give them a better understanding of who you are, maybe in a way that you can’t easily express yourself.  Not because you want to hide anything, but because… well, it’s hard to really talk about yourself objectively, isn’t it?  We’re all either too hard or too easy on ourselves and don’t hit the middle notes at all, even though they’re the ones that are often closest to the truth.”

      “An interesting observation and one I cannot dispute.  And you believe you have located an individual who shall be someone useful with whom to speak?”

      “I do.  Not the person I’d suggest for someone who would benefit by a series of sharp kicks to the bum, but for someone who valued a more, well I hate to say intellectual approach, because that’s not exactly what I mean, but it’s the best way I can describe it.  And, this is the part you’ll really like, he originally went to Uni for art history, before going back to pursue a career in mental health.” 

Oh yes, Mycroft liked that idea quite a lot, if the look of intrigued anticipation was to be believed. It had only taken calling everyone for he knew for recommendations to find the one person who might be able to reach Mycroft in ways that would be meaningful and the artist would take seriously.

      “That is… interesting.”

      “Thought you might appreciate it.  As soon as you’re a little better able to get around, we’ll set up an appointment and see how things go.”

      “I admit I am not entirely comfortable with the idea, however, I am slightly less concerned at this point than I was previously.”

      “Good.  That’s what we want.  No matter what, the only goal is to do what’s best for you and your health, don’t ever think that goal has changed.  Your well-being is my prime concern and that is something you can always count on.  Of course, I can’t exactly say the same thing about my cooking.  Hope you like chicken, because that’s what’s on offer tonight.”

Mycroft happily accepted the change of topic and turn away from his infirmities.  The reassurance, however, was also welcome and he would never fail to be grateful for the gift of finding a medical practitioner who was as dedicated to both the health and dignity of his patients as John.

      “I am certain it will be highly palatable.”

      “I’ll try not to disappoint.  Hate to have you go to bed tonight with only biscuits in your belly.”

Mycroft laughed and felt the last vestiges of his anxiety flow away.

      “Sherlock was quite the dictatorial caretaker.  A sadist, really.  Dangling my tea just out of reach unless I agreed to his demands.”

      “Exactly the way I’d expect a bratty little brother to behave.  I’m glad to hear it was a _normal_ day.”

      “My thoughts, precisely.  And I am very much looking forward to another tomorrow.”

      “I’m sure Sherlock will be happy to comply.”

__________

Lestrade took his plate and one for Mycroft to eat in the bedroom and gave a resigned shrug to John when he emerged later with Mycroft’s plate still half-filled with food.  But, half-filled also meant half-emptied and that was a small victory, at least.  As long as Mycroft took his vitamin supplements and had some calories coming in, he should be alright for the meantime, but John made a mental note to put a bug in Greg’s ear to keep offering the high-calorie snacks and treats that seemed to tempt the artist into eating, which would give Mycroft’s poor body some energy to continue healing.  Once his mobility increased, that would be critical because the artist could _not_ lose any additional weight.

      “So, what are you and Sherlock doing tonight, John?  I’ll be happy to keep Mycroft company in the bedroom if you two want the sofa for yourselves.”

Lestrade’s lecherous wink earned him one of Sherlock’s impressive snorts, but the PC didn’t fail to notice that the student’s eyes involuntarily cut towards the sofa as if he was imagining just what _could_ go on if John was willing to follow along with that suggestion.

      “I don’t know, actually.  Sherlock?  What time are you leaving for your lab?”

      “There is no specific hour I must arrive.  I do have work that requires my attention, but it need not commence immediately.  I thought... it is chilly, but not overly so.  The library is still open and I have books to return.  If we leave now, we should have time to walk and arrive before they close.”

      “A nice stroll on a pleasant night?  Sounds good.  Greg, tell Mycroft I said goodbye.  I’ll stop in again tomorrow.”

Lestrade frowned slightly, not at the thought of John visiting, but at the thought of John maybe _needing_ to visit.

      “Anything you’re worrying about?”

      “His knee has me a little concerned, but I suspect it will be alright with a bit of rest.  Try and keep him off of it, if you can.”

      “Will do.  You two have fun.”

Said, John was happy to see, while Lestrade was taking out a carton of ice cream with which to seduce his lover into a few more bites of food before bedtime.  Sherlock quickly gathered his books and donned Lestrade’s jacket to brave the outdoors, motioning John to follow along as he exited the flat.  Once outside, John was a little surprised, but a great deal pleased that Sherlock laced their fingers together as they started to walk, and those fingers stayed laced as they strolled at a, for Sherlock, languid pace, chatting about the more interesting medical cases John had handled that day and aspects of Sherlock’s research.  After depositing the books at the library, the pair meandered with no real destination, but John wasn’t surprised that they found themselves on Baker Street, moving towards Sherlock’s former flat.  What did surprise him was the instant Sherlock yanked him into a doorway and pressed him against the door so that they were practically hidden from view in the darkness.

      “Sherlock?  What in the..”

      “Shhh…”

John accepted the shushing because there was a look on Sherlock’s face that said it would really be the best possible thing to do at the moment.  Following the student’s eyes, John peered carefully at the figures that seemed to have attracted Sherlock’s attention - two men standing in front of Sherlock’s former building, talking with some level of animation, finally parting ways with one returning inside and the second heading away from them, crossing the street a few houses down and continuing on out of sight.

      “Want to explain what’s going on, Sherlock?”

      “That was my former landlord.”

      “Ok, is there a reason we’re hiding from him?  Greg squared your lease, right?”

      “That is not my concern.”

      “Then what is?  Why are we playing spy?”

      “The second man… I recognize him.”

      “Ok… is that bad?”

      “I’ve seen him several times when… I acquired _merchandise_ to use or… sell.”

      “You mean drugs.”

      “I do.”

      “So he’s a dealer.”

      “I think he is higher in the hierarchy than a simple distributor.”

      “Oh.”

      “Quite.”

      “Back to talk to Greg?”

      “I think that would be wise.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really consider this only the first half of the update, but wanted to get something up since folks have been waiting a LONG time...

      “Are you sure?”

Lestrade looked across the kitchen table at Sherlock and John, suddenly very happy that Mycroft had succumbed to his fatigue and fallen asleep an hour ago.  He did _not_ need another upheaval right now.

      “I am.  I do not know his name, but I have observed him on several occasions and those obeservations clearly indicate he is not an inconsequential member of the local drugs community.”

      “Think you could identify him by a photograph?”

      “I refuse to answer that question due to its incredible stupidity.”

      “Lovely.  Come in with me tomorrow and I’ll set you up with some photos.  Let’s see if we can get this bloke’s story.  I drop in for a visit now and then, but I don’t see the Mr. very often.  Sort of glares at me and continues on his way.  I’d love to have a better idea of what’s going on with him, if only to dangle it over his head if something happens I can’t actually arrest him for.”

      “Greg, do you think… Sherlock just closed that door, should he… do you really think that’s a good idea?”

      “I’m just asking him to identify the person, John, not denounce him in the docket.”

      “I know, but…”

      “If we can connect Mr. Hudson to the drugs trade, he can be arrested, incarcerated and, if we are fortunate, murdered in prison.  I do not understand your reticence.”

Lestrade had to credit Sherlock’s direct line of thinking, bloodthirsty though it might be.

      “I just want to check a few things, John.  If Sherlock can identify this fellow, I’ll pass the information along and…”

      “Wrong.”

      “Pardon?”

      “I specifically chose a word of one syllable to reduce the likelihood of confusion, Lestrade, but your arthritic grip on the English language is, apparently, even more feeble than I had surmised.”

      “You know, I could arrange a little time behind bars for you, too.  With your tongue, the murdered-in-prison scenario is going to be something to keep in mind.”

      “The only thing more flaccid than your threat is your…”

      “OK!  Boys, let’s put the swords away for the meantime.  All that saber rattling is going to wake my patient and he needs the sleep.  Sherlock, why don’t you explain what your one-word declaration means, because I’m not sure I caught the right end of the stick either?”

Sherlock snorted loudly and leaned back in his chair.

      “Lestrade shall investigate this issue himself and I will assist.”

A negative aspect of knowing two people, Sherlock thought, was the ability for them to yell at you in stereo.

      “I fail to see either of your objections.”

John and Lestrade looked between each other, silently arguing as to who should be the one to take point in the argument.  John happily lost the battle, leaving Lestrade to accept the oncoming headache.

      “Sherlock… it’s good that you want to help your landlady.  Mrs. Hudson is a wonderful woman and I’m going to see that if there _is_ something going on, it’ll get sorted.  But that’s a very large _if_.  First, we don’t know that man is exactly who you think he is.  Second, we don’t know the connection to her husband.  Might just be mates from school or something.”

      “Which is why we must investigate.”

      “Which is why I’ll pass along the name if you can pick out his photo and have a chat with a few lads in the drugs squad.”

      “Or, we simply investigate the matter ourselves and present the fiend to them for prosecution.”

      “That’s not the way it works, Sherlock.  Let’s say, for a moment, that we _do_ find something.  Spying on the man, violating his rights… all of that could ensure that he’s _not_ prosecuted!  Policeman have to follow procedure…”

      “I am not, thankfully, a policeman.”

      “But I _am_.  Going a bit vigilante to find Mycroft was one thing, but this is quite another.”

      “Fine.  If you refuse to participate in this initiative, John and I will conduct the investigation alone.”

And the in-stereo resistance, once again, made Sherlock’s ears ring.  This second battle of non-verbal communication found John the loser and Lestrade extracting his bottle of scotch from its hiding place in the cupboard.

      “Sherlock… I’m not a detective.  I am a doctor and one who has a job and a private patient to attend to.  I don’t have the time to investigate something like this and have no idea how to go about it anyway!”

      “I will instruct you.  Besides, you would be my assistant and function only as directed, so a knowledge of proper technique is not a necessary prerequisite for the post.”

      “You’re not a detective either!  How can you instruct someone on how to be a detective when you have no idea how to do it yourself?”

      “I have successfully completed one investigation and feel confident my natural skills shall be sufficient to further my portfolio.”

      “Oh god…”

One glass was set down in front of the doctor and a tall measure of Lestrade’s favorite nerve tonic was added to it.

      “Sherlock, listen to John.  I know you’re bright…”

      “A genius.”

      “Fine, a genius… but conducting a proper investigation is something that requires training.  You have to know what to look for, be able to interpret information…”

      “All for which you claim you are suited, yet you refuse to take up the matter yourself.”

      “I told you why!”

      “In any event, what _you_ can do, I can accomplish to a far greater degree.  Perhaps it is for the best that John and I will work this case alone.  You would likely only hinder our efforts.”

      “You are not working the case alone!  You… we don’t even know if it _is_ a case!”

      “I am convinced it is.  That is sufficient.”

      “No, it’s not.  Sometimes, I wish that was enough.  It would make law enforcement a lot easier.  But… maybe a lot more unfair, too.  It’s a compromise, see?  We make sure there’s reason to go after someone and gather the evidence to prove they _should_ be convicted.  That way, we get the right person convicted and not some poor innocent bastard who was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

      “There is nothing innocent about Mr. Hudson.”

      “Evidence!”

      “That is why we must investigate!”

      “AARRRGGGHHH!!!”

      “John, give Lestrade something calming.  His hysteria is becoming tiresome.”

John poured another few fingers of scotch into Lestrade’s glass then another few after Lestrade’s ‘keep going’ wave.

      “Sherlock, I think we should listen to Greg and keep that compromise idea on the table.  You go with him and see if you can put a name to the face we saw.  Then he’ll talk to some people who know more about this than we do and see what they think.”

      “And after that?”

John looked over to Lestrade who already had one finger of scotch down his throat and was seriously considering giving a second the same swift fate.

      “Then they launch an investigation or don’t.  If they don’t have cause to pursue a case right now, I can get a few eyes on the situation to see if there’s anything else we can add to the evidence to make an investigation more likely.”

      “The dolts will undoubtedly tip our hand and alert the villain to our intentions.”

      “Call any of my mates a dolt when you’re at the station tomorrow and watch how fast you find yourself out behind the building dodging fists.”

      “Violence.  How utterly unsurprising.”

      “Sherlock, as it is, a few might remember you from your arrest and that’s already going to make them keep an eye on you.  Don’t give anybody cause to thump you, alright?”

      “John shall safeguard my person.”

      “First I’m your assistant and now I’m your bodyguard?  Explain to me again why I even tolerate you?”

      “I am exceptional at kissing and an incomparable escort for entertaining activities.”

      “Yeah, that’s true.  I’m still not getting between you and a fist, though.”

      “That is part of the job description of an assistant.”

      “No, it isn’t.”

      “I beg to differ.”

      “You’re a loony, so nothing you say counts.”

      “That is a completely erroneous assertion!  Everything I say is creditable!”

      “Not arguing the ‘loony’ part, I see.”

      “It is so ridiculous, no argument is required.”

      “Yet, you do it so well, brother dear.”

Three heads spun to see Mycroft leaning against the frame of the bedroom door, looking so wobbly that Lestrade was out of his chair and by his side in the blink of an eye.

      “What are you doing out of bed, love?”

      “Attempting to eradicate a rather fetid flavor in my mouth.  The water pitcher has run dry, I’m afraid.”

      “I’m so sorry.  I forgot to check it.  Here, you go back to bed and I’ll get you a drink.”

      “No… I believe there is something going on about which I am currently unaware.  I would see that rectified first.”

      “I love it when you talk like an emperor.”

      “Oh, Gregory… I do enjoy being regally regarded.”

      “The get your regal arse back to bed and I’ll kneel by your mattress and be your fool until you fall asleep again.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Just a little chat with the boys, love.  Nothing more than that.”

      “I regret having to reveal this at such an early stage of our relationship, my dear, but…”

      “Mycroft?”

      “You are sadly transparent when you attempt to lie.  It is as if there is signage above your head announcing your untruth with flashing lights and some form of neon-based arrows pointing at you in an impolitely indicting fashion.”

Lestrade ignored Sherlock’s mocking laughter and kissed his lover on his cheek.

      “Then I’ll try to be as truthful as possible so the light show doesn’t blind you.”

      “Always the considerate partner.  Truly, the depth of my love for you is bottomless.  That, however, will not detour my mind from the topic at hand.”

A quick look at John bought Lestrade a resigned shrug and the doctor rising to fill a glass with water.

      “Alright, Mycroft.  But, can we have this discussion with you off your feet?  Please… you need your rest.”

      “I agree to your terms.”

Another kiss on Mycroft’s cheek and Lestrade was helping his lover back to bed, with Sherlock and John following quickly.  As soon as Mycroft was settled, John passed the water and watched with Lestrade and Sherlock as Mycroft drained the glass dry.

      “Did I provide a sufficiently entertaining performance?”

      “Professional interest, in my case.  Not sure what these two voyeurs were fantasizing about, though.”

      “I am contemplating conditions for which excessive thirst presents as a symptom.  Peritonitis is the most likely candidate, however, it is possible, I suppose, that he is suffering from a dissected aorta or bleeding esophageal varices.”

      “John!”

      “Calm down, Greg.  Sherlock’s just being… Sherlock.”

      “Mycroft… you’re ok, right?”

      “Good heavens, Gregory… thirst is also a symptom of thirst.  I failed to imbibe an appropriate amount of liquid before retiring and became parched.”

      “Well, that’s not going to happen again.  I don’t want you drying up like a mummy because your water glass has nothing but air in it.  I’m going to get a BIG pitcher to put in here.  Maybe an ice pail, too.”

Lestrade looked so concerned that Mycroft tugged him down for a kiss, then patted his hand tenderly.

      “You are far too good to me, Gregory.  Now, shall we tend to the evening’s matter of importance?”

The three other men looked at each other, hoping one would volunteer to act as spokesperson and, when no one else did, Lestrade decided it was his duty to tell the tale.  Something Sherlock and John would regret the next time they wanted him to divulge one of his super-secret on-the-cheap eateries.  At least, he was relieved to see, as the story unfurled, Mycroft didn’t become overly stressed.  It was difficult to see his partner wrestle with the information, but John didn’t need to provide him anything to drag his emotions back to a manageable level, so Lestrade gave himself an mental pat on the back when he was finished.

      “Describe this person for me.”

Lestrade nodded to Sherlock who described the man with a level of detail which satisfied the PC that tomorrow’s session with the photographs would be productive.  And, obviously, detail which set something spinning in Mycroft’s mind.

      “I have seen him.  Not often, but I have noticed him several times in the past beginning… not long after Sherlock and I became residents in the building.  I am not happy with this development, Gregory.  Not happy at all.”

      “Neither am I, love.  Sherlock’s going to come with me tomorrow to look through some photos to see if we can put a name to the face.  That will give us something to work with if there really seems to be a problem.”

Mycroft thought a moment and shrugged his shoulders, wincing at the pain of the act.

      “I presume it is the appropriate course of action; however, I am not content with Sherlock’s involvement in this particular area.  Those people… I do not want him within reach of their clutches ever again.”

      “He’s not going to be, love.  I already made that very clear.  Just an identification and that will be the end of it.”

      “I have not agreed to… DAMNATION!”

Sherlock rubbed the surely-bruising area on his side where John had pinched him into silence.

      “I’m not happy about it either, Mycroft, but Greg’s going to take the name and pass it along to the people who investigate drugs issues.  They’ll handle matters from then on.”

      “Only if the case is sufficiently large to enflame their egos and bring them the recognition they crave.”

      “That’s not who they are, you bastard.  John’s right, Mycroft.  I don’t want Sherlock involved in this any more than you do and I’m not going to allow him to do anything that might be dangerous.  I promise you that.”

Lestrade stroked Mycroft’s leg to help calm his lover and gave John a nod towards the door to get the doctor and Sherlock to give them a little time alone.  Fortunately, Sherlock accepted being escorted out of the bedroom without protest and Lestrade waited patiently while Mycroft gathered his thoughts.

      “He has just found his freedom, Gregory…”

      “Just looking at photos, love.  Nothing else.  This is why I’d hoped not to get you involved; I knew you’d be upset and there’s no reason to be.”

      “Perhaps I should…”

      “You are _not_ coming to the station, Mycroft.  You’re going to have a nice, quiet hour or so at home while Sherlock’s with me.  Then he’ll be back here making your life miserable.”

      “You shall… he shall not be upset during this identification process, shall he?  Surely, some of your colleagues will remember him.”

      “Actually, Sherlock was on his best behavior that night, so I doubt he made a very large impression on any of my mates, but there will be a few who remember.  Think of it as a demonstration of his contrition that he’s helping us.  Everyone will see he’s stepping up for the community and that will buy him some goodwill.”

      “Something for which I hope he never has need.”

      “We’ll keep a good thought.  Now, do you want a little more water?  And…”

Lestrade laid a hand on Mycroft’s neck and stroked it up and down.

      “Yeah, you need one of your pills.”

      “Do I?”

      “You get a little shaky when you need a pain pill.  It’s ok to need one, Mycroft.  You’re _supposed_ to need one right now.  Is this really why you woke up?”

Mycroft laid his hand over Lestrade’s and took strength from the warmth of his lover’s skin.

      “Somewhat.  I simply… I do not wish to become reliant on them… is that such a terrible thing?”

      “No, it’s not.  And I give you my word that if I think it’s becoming an issue, I’ll let you know.  And I’ll let John know, too.  I know that people can get in trouble with those things and maybe I should be a little worried, considering Sherlock’s problems, but I’m not.  I _will_ speak up if I become worried, though, ok?  Now, take your pill with some of that… ok, I’ll get you some more water.  Hold on.”

Lestrade grabbed the empty glass and made a quick dash for water, stopping a moment to pass along the latest bit of information to John who added that to the mental file he was building on his patient.  After Lestrade returned to the bedroom, John smiled at the pouting Sherlock and pulled him over to the sofa.

      “It’s not your fault, Sherlock.  Mycroft’s not wanting his pain meds has a far deeper root than your drugs problems.”

      “Addiction issues have a heredity basis, do they not?”

John chewed his lip a second and studied his friend.

      “Do you consider yourself an addict?”

      “No.”

      “But you think you might have addiction issues.”

      “I… I am not certain.”

      “You told me that the drugs were more a diversion than a compulsion.”

      “True, but that does not necessarily mean I do not sometimes hear their call.”

      “And want to answer.”

Sherlock shrugged and John wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

      “Awareness of a problem is important, Sherlock.  It helps prevent it from growing and it seems to me that you’re doing a good job of ignoring that particular tune in your head.  Have you… has Mycroft ever…”

      “Used drugs?  Not that I have ever known.  And his view on _my_ use has been unwaveringly negative.  In truth, I cannot imagine my brother doing anything that might compromise him in a manner that could detrimentally impact his art.”

      “Ok, good to know.  But it’s something I’ll keep at the back of my mind, just in case.  So… do you want me to come with you tomorrow?”

      “I thought your servitude began early tomorrow morning.”

      “Actually, a mate wanted to trade shifts with me and I said no because… well, I thought we might catch a film or something tomorrow night, but I can call him and say I changed my mind.”

      “It is unnecessary.  I do not need assistance.”

      “No, no you don’t, but that doesn’t mean you might not _want_ somebody to come with you.  And we’ll have the rest of the day to do something.  How does that sound?”

Agreeable, though to a degree Sherlock did not want to admit.

      “Oh very well… if it makes you happy to accompany me, I suppose I must endure it.”

Said with a dismissive wave that made John struggle to contain his giggle at Sherlock’s transparency.

      “Thank you, my lord.  I’ll be eternally grateful.”

      “As well you should be.  Now, as Lestrade departs at a ridiculously-early hour, we must make efficient use of the time remaining before you leave.”

      “And I take it you have a suggestion.”

      “I may.”

      “You know, it’s already late… Greg and Mycroft are probably in bed for the night… you don’t sleep anyway…”

      “Is there a point you’re trying to make?”

      “Apparently not.”

      “Good.  Then we may return to the point _I_ wish to make.”

Sherlock leaned over and gave John a kiss, smiling triumphantly when it was over, which _did_ make John giggle.

      “That’s a very good point.”

      “I would not have made it if it were otherwise.”

      “And, it’s along the one I was hoping to make.”

      “Oh?”

      “Let’s see if I can articulate an argument to convince you.”

      “Is it an enjoyable argument?”

      “I think that’s highly likely.”

__________

      “Well, isn’t this cozy.”

John cracked an eye open and turned it towards Lestrade’s voice.

      “Yes, yes it is.”

After cementing his point with a long round of kissing and some tentatively roaming hands, John had too difficult a time controlling his yawning and, after reassuring Sherlock that the yawns weren’t any form of criticism, the doctor tugged the student down on the sofa to sleep the remaining hours until the word of the law came crashing down to put an end to their as-established cozy scene.

      “Coffee?”

      “Love some.”

John carefully wriggled out of Sherlock’s octopus-like grasp and tucked Sherlock’s long limbs back around the sofa blanket he retrieved from Lestrade’s armchair.

      “You two had a good night, I take it.  Anything I should have videotaped?”

      “If there were, I would have done it myself.  A bit of extra cash is always helpful.”

      “Oh, no question about that.  I don’t think I’ll be able to convince Mycroft into flaunting himself on film, though.  He’s so prim and proper.”

      “Men like us just aren’t destined to be rich and porn famous.”

      “At least we’ve got coffee.”

      “That we do.  Anyway, I thought I’d go with Sherlock this morning, if that’s ok.”

Lestrade sipped his coffee and gave John a ‘go on’ look.

      “I mean, not that he needs anyone to go with him…”

      “Which he told you.”

      “Which he told me, but…”

      “But Sherlock in a room full of cops is a very tasty recipe for disaster.”

      “No.  But, yes.”

      “I won’t say I disagree, I’d actually already given that some thought.  Good to know I don’t have to think about it any longer.  You’ve got his leash, John, and you have my sympathy.”

      “Very funny.  Not as funny as breakfast, though, which I don’t seem to have.”

      “Something wrong with your arms?”

      “I cooked dinner last night, didn’t I?”

      “Crap, you’re right.  Ok, breakfast is my duty this morning.”

      “Any chance Mycroft will have some?”

      “A few bites, if he wakes up.”

      “Which he will.”

      “Which he will.”

      “He’s in tune with you.”

      “Did you read that in a women’s magazine?”

      “Not many copies of _Angler’s Mail_ left behind in the waiting rooms.”

      “Fair enough.  And… maybe it’s a little true.”

      “It’s very true.  And it’s a good thing.”

      “What is a good thing?”

If there was a sight more lovely than a sleepy Sherlock, John was sure he’d never seen it.

      “Lube.  Lube is a very good thing.”

Sherlock’s petulant confusion set John and Lestrade laughing until John took pity on him and waved Sherlock over to the kitchen table and poured him a cup of coffee.

      “Is it normal for average minds to be so fixated on sexual topics?”

      “Yes, it is perfectly normal.  And a wonderful, wonderful thing.”

      “Listen to Greg, Sherlock.  It’s one of the perks of being a perfectly average man.”

      “Pfft.  Fortunately, those with measurable levels of intelligence are not burdened by such ridiculous concerns.”

      “Lube is _not_ ridiculous.  You’ll find out for yourself one day, Sherlock.  Hopefully not the hard way.”

      “How my brother suffers you, Lestrade, is something I will ever fail to comprehend.  No… I rescind that.  He is an artist and, therefore, mentally impaired.  There is no mystery to your malformed association.”

      “Or to this magnificent breakfast.  Which you should eat while it’s hot.  I’m going to see if Sleeping Beauty is awake and get a little of my delicious meal in his stomach.  John, if you want a shower, be my guest.  And I’m sure I can find something clean for you to wear.”   

      “The cleanliness will be so overshadowed by the hideousness of the garb that it shall, itself, be an inconsequential factor.”

      “Greg, thanks.  Sherlock, eat your breakfast.”

      “Do you remember Mycroft’s homecoming garb?”

      “Oh god, Sherlock, you’re right.”

      “Hey!  What was wrong with that?”

      “Go feed my patient!  Sherlock will pick something out for me to wear.”

      “I’m offended.”

      “No, Lestrade.  You are _offensive_.  There is a difference.”

      “Fine friends you two are.  At least Mycroft loves me.”

      “Sherlock _did_ mention mental impairment.”

Lestrade made a friendly gesture that John happily reciprocated and Sherlock again wondered if this was something common to average minds.

      “Greg may have no taste in clothes, but he does understand the basics of a proper breakfast.”

      “True, he is not completely bereft of use.”

      “And this is exactly what’s supposed to happen after a good night’s cuddle.”

Sherlock stopped the fork rising to his mouth and processed the information before finishing his bite and replying.

      “Next time, you may make the breakfast.”

      “Me?”

      “I would assume the correct procedure would be that someone involved in the cuddling action perpetrate the post-cuddle breakfast.”

      “What about you?”

      “I, apparently, have the assignment of the day’s clothing selection.”

John stole a piece of Sherlock’s toast and used it to smother his grin.  _Next time_ , he’d said.  That implied… there would _be_ a next time.  A close-quarters, fully-clothed nap on the couch was apparently something Sherlock didn’t mind repeating.  With this particular living arrangement, that was a very good thing to know.

__________

Wearing the PC’s borrowed clothes, deemed acceptable by Sherlock, John accompanied his friend and Lestrade to the police station where the PC set up Sherlock with series of photographs to look through.  And, although a few of the other constables stopped to find out what was going on, no fiery eruptions burst from Sherlock to leave the station in ashes.  As the minutes ticked by, Lestrade felt his pesky lingering worries begin to fade and…

      “May I ask what’s going on here?”

…of course, his commanding officer had to stop by for a chat.

      “Ummmm… nothing, really, sir.”

      “Try that once more PC and say something I’ll actually believe.”

      “It’s really the case, sir.  Sherlock here… he saw someone he recognized at a place that person… well, it was a little suspicious.”

      “None of which explains why you’re here.”

      “Oh.  I guess not.  Well, Sherlock didn’t know the name of the man and we’re trying to find it.  He’s…”

Lestrade cut eyes towards Sherlock, who shrugged his most disinterested shrug in response.

      “Sherlock says he has some standing in the drugs community, but doesn’t know his name.  He’s an odd fellow to find visiting a nice neighborhood, especially talking to Sherlock’s old landlord.  I thought if we could put a name to the face, I could pass it along to the lads working the drugs business.  See… nothing really, but pays to keep an eye on things.  Right?”

John added his ingratiating smile to Lestrade’s desperately pleading one, hoping it would help cancel out Sherlock’s irritated scowl.

      “Which neighborhood?”

      “Ummm… Sherlock saw him on Baker Street.”

Lestrade watched as the man tapped his chin over and over with his index finger and hoped he wasn’t remembering which form he needed to fill out to permanently reassign a PC to traffic duty.

      “If you find him, write up everything and see it comes to me.  Is that clear?”

      “Yes, sir.  I’ll do it the moment we’re done here.”

      “Good.”

The three investigators waited until they were well and truly alone before breaking their silence.

      “Greg?  What was that about?”

      “I don’t know, John.  It’s almost as if…”

      “It is obvious that he possesses some information or suspicions pertinent to the situation.  I demand an apology for your skepticism.”

      “We don’t know that for sure, Sherlock.  He might just be… generally concerned.  It’s always best to stay ahead of things than have to come in and clean up the problem after it happens.”

      “I will accept funds for tea and two new research journals as your sign of remorse.”

      “Let’s see if you can actually identify anyone before we start talking about a reward.  John… just keep him looking through these and I’m going to get the rest of my day sorted.  I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sherlock snorted a farewell and returned his attention to the stacks of photographs, quickly moving through them while John watched.

      “Do you really think there’s something going on we don’t know about?”

      “There was a definite shift in the head oaf’s body language when Baker Street was mentioned.  That he has requested our information be routed directly to him tells the final chapter of the tale.”

      “Ok… then it’s good you’re here.  Maybe this will give them some help with whatever it is they’re doing.”

      “If you had not lent support to Lestrade’s ridiculous pettifoggery, we ourselves could have accumulated a robust body of data to present for their investigations.”

      “Sherlock, we don’t know that your landlord has anything to do with… anything!”

      “He is a blackhearted villain.  That is sufficient.”

      “I really don’t think there’s a category for that on a charge sheet.”

      “There should be.  London would be the better for it.”

      “Start a petition.  Right now, though, let’s find this verified criminal and put a name to him.  That’s the most helpful thing you can do right now.”

Sherlock’s scowl didn’t cow John as effectively as the student might have hoped, so he decided to ignore the doctor very grandly until he met with some success for this venture.  Which, surprisingly, took less time than he expected.

      “Him.”

      “Hmm?”

      “Him!”

      “Oh…. yeah, you’re right.  Where’s… here he comes.  And with beverages.  Greg obviously understands the term public servant.”

Lestrade set down a cup of coffee in front of both Sherlock and John, before thumping John on the back of his skull.

      “No one will mind if I let you inspect the cells for a day or two, John.”

      “They’ll get very tired of hearing my tin cup clanging along the bars, though.”

      “Public nuisance.  You just added another few days onto your general nuisance sentence.  Nicely done.”

      “That’s not fair!  Sherlock doesn’t even know how to bake a cake!  How am I supposed to get my escape file if he can’t make the proper baked goods?”

      “If you two are quite finished your tedious schoolchild natterings, we have more important matters to discuss.  This is the individual I saw at my former flat.”

Sherlock pointed to the photograph on the page and Lestrade quickly jotted down the name in his notebook.

      “Great.  And you saw him talking to your landlord?”

      “I already said that.”

      “Just confirming for my report.  I’ll add in that Mycroft’s seen him before, also, so this isn’t a one-time thing.  I have to admit… the name’s familiar, though I couldn’t place it if I had to.  Probably heard it around here and more than once, which does back up your idea that he’s someone of note.  Ok, I’ll check him for prior arrests and ask around before I type this up and submit it.  Thanks, Sherlock.  I appreciate you coming here today.”

      “And what, now, is my next step?”

      “Uh… nothing.  I’ll do as I was ordered and it’ll be passed along to the right people to use your information.  You’ve done all you can.”

      “I disagree.”

      “Not this again.”

      “Define ‘this.’ “

      “John, take him somewhere to do something with someone who isn’t me.”

      “Apparently, rudeness, as well as drooling dimwittery, is a primary job qualification for a policeman.”

      “John…”

      “What?  I’m enjoying the show.  A cinema ticket isn’t free and definitely doesn’t buy this quality entertainment.  Let me have my fun while I can.”

      “I am officially leaving you two so I can find some other miscreants to deal with.  And don’t forget to check on Mycroft regularly during the day, if you don’t spend it at home.  He was a little better this morning, but I don’t want him to be in need of something and try to get it on his own.”

      “Don’t worry, Greg.  I’ve got the same concerns, so we’ll make certain he’s alright.”

      “Mycroft is not a baby.  He can survive being alone for morning.”

      “Mycroft is a stubborn bastard who has an unlimited capacity for avoiding help even when he desperately needs it.  He’ll happily try to do things he’s not ready for, which could harm him even further, if it meant nobody had to help him do it when they got home.  Want to argue with that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s pout was all the answer Lestrade needed.

      “Ok, so have a good day, but remember your brother and make sure he’s cared for.  And here…”

Lestrade took out his wallet and extracted a few notes, adding another after a moment’s thought.

      “That should cover a bit of tea and your notebooks.  Stay out of trouble, you two.”

As the PC strolled away to make a real start to his workday, John laughed at Sherlock’s smug smile.

      “I win.”

      “That you do.  Now, how about we take your defeated opponent’s advice and check on your brother?  Then, we can see what the rest of the day brings.”

      “We may visit my laboratory.”

      “Oh, ok.  That sounds fun, actually.”

      “Fun is not the word I would choose, but it should interest you.”

      “And while we’re in the area, you can buy your new lab notebooks.”

      “Really?  I had not thought of that.”

      “That was such a rotten lie I can smell it from here.”

      “It was not a lie.  It was… convivial sarcasm.”

      “Dog breath.  That was absolutely dog breath.”

      “Oh, did Lestrade leave behind his socks?”

      “I’m going to tell him you said that.”

      “Tattling shall lose you your share of the tea funds.”

      “Damn it all.  I’m too easy for my own good.”

      “Is it now permissible to say something convivially sarcastic?”

      “I think you just did.”

      “Was it amusing?”

      “Actually, yes.”

Sherlock grinned proudly and John started laughing again.

      “Let’s go make use of those tea funds and wipe the taste of this police swill out of my mouth.  Really, I can see why Greg’s testy most of the time if this is what he’s given to survive on.”

      “I agree.  Much was explained after my first sip.”

With as much tact as possible, at least on John’s part, the police coffee was disposed of and the two men made their way out of the building.

      “We should bring Mycroft something.  He’ll be happy to know we thought of him.”

      “If we must.  Of course, that would diminish our personal refreshment bank.”

      “Do we have enough for a pastry?”

      “One each.  And tea.”

      “You know, the tea would be barely warm by the time we got it back to Mycroft.  Shame to have him drink tepid tea.  A crime, really.”

      “I do not believe it would send the caring message we are striving to achieve.”

      “I’ll make him a cup when we get home.”

      “Very sensible.”

__________

      “Thank you, John.  This is quite refreshing.”

Mycroft didn’t understand the look John and Sherlock shared, but decided it was best not to pry.

      “Glad you like it.  Making tea is my specialty.”

      “You do yourself proud.  Now, may I know the outcome of the morning’s activities?”

Sherlock jumped in with a summary of their trip to the police station, emphasizing his conviction that there _was_ reason for an investigation and that their former landlord should figure prominently in the proceedings.

      “Hmmm… I suspect you are correct and I am most certainly not happy with this situation.  It is far too close to Mrs. Hudson for my comfort; I am not unaware of the potential for collateral damage in a police action and I do not want her tainted by her husband’s behaviors.”

      “I would rather have her suffer some taint, which will fade with time, rather than the continued application of his fists.”

Mycroft sighed heavily, but nodded his agreement.

      “I’m sure Greg will do whatever he can to keep her out of things.”

      “Unless he inserts himself into the matter more fully, I have no idea what he might do to guide the direction of the investigation.  The branch he occupies in the tree of monkeys is a pitifully low one.”

      “Sherlock, please… and you are certain Gregory gave no further indication as to the current status of this issue?”

      “He is as unaware as are we.  Perhaps he shall ferret out more today.”

      “Perhaps…”

      “Mycroft… I really don’t like the face you’re making.”

Which was evident from John’s own dark and concerned expression.

      “ _Any_ face Mycroft exhibits is one that disappoints humanity rather egregiously.”

      “Shut it, Sherlock.  Your brother’s thinking.  That’s not good.”

      “Given the rarity of his manifestation of that particular skill, I would concur.”

      “Shut… Mycroft.  Where are you going?”

John barred the elder Holmes’s attempt to leave the bed and scowled his most serious doctor’s scowl to wipe whatever plan was brewing in Mycroft’s mind directly out of existence.

      “I require the use of the telephone.”

      “That is an untruth.  You have no friends, will not consume any possible take-away you might order and Lestrade is working.  Unless you require an ambulance, which is something John would determine, you have no need for a telephone.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock, but you are mistaken.  Now, if you will excuse me?”

Mycroft made to get up again and Sherlock joined John at the barricade.

      “Oh good heavens… all I require is the use of a telephone!  I am not attempting to sprint to Scotland!”

Rethinking his decision not to go bankrupt to get a cellular telephone, John nodded to Sherlock, who carefully helped his brother out of the bed and gave him support as they left the bedroom.

      “There.  Make your phone call, then you will return to bed.”

      “Of course, Commandant.  A few minutes outside of the wire is a gift I scarcely deserve.”

Mycroft waved off Sherlock’s pout and waited while the phone rang.

      “Ah, Mrs. Hudson.  How good to hear your voice… yes, yes it has… I know and I am as pained about it as are you… really?... how interesting… now, the reason I rang… I know you have, life _can_ get very busy… anyway, I was hoping you might be willing to pay a visit… oh, I would love to, I do adore your scones, however I am not in a position to travel at the moment… yes, it _is_ rather a story to tell… you will?... how delightful… I look very forward to seeing you… yes, you too, goodbye.”

      “Mrs. Hudson is on her way.”

John and Sherlock stared at Mycroft, who huffed his exasperation and waved his hand to start the journey back to the bedroom.  Once back in bed, Mycroft asked John for another cup of tea and when he was gone, fixed his brother with a determined glare.  There were matters to discuss…


	34. Chapter 34

      “Oh, isn’t this nice!”

Sherlock stood awkwardly while Mrs. Hudson looked around the flat, suddenly and uncharacteristically glad John had convinced him to tidy up before she arrived.

      “So bright and… look at that!  Mycroft’s paintings on the wall!  Ooh, I haven’t seen that one.  He’s blessed, your brother.  Truly blessed.”

Both Sherlock and John had to wonder, however, if that thought would change once she actually _saw_ the artist.

      “And all three of you living here?  Or is it four?”

No female over the age of forty should ever raise their eyebrow in that manner.  Sherlock would make it his life’s mission to see that directive put into law.

      “John maintains his own residence.  Already the bodily proximity in this matchbox borders upon psychosis-inducing.”

      “Then it’s a good thing Mycroft’s young man told me he’ll be looking for a larger flat soon.  Two bedrooms, from what I understand.”

That was not an appropriate smile either.  Another prohibition for which he would be advocating most forcefully.

      “And on that note, how about we say hello to Mycroft.”

Sherlock nodded his gratitude to John and took a deep breath as they escorted Mrs. Hudson to the bedroom.  Another thing for which he was suddenly and uncharacteristically glad… John was skilled in the handling of mature women, because he truly had little idea what to do after their guest released a small, pained sound, somewhat muffled by the hand she held over her mouth, when she saw his brother.  Who had insisted on being placed in a button-up shirt that he left unbuttoned so his battered torso could be seen easily.

      “Please, Mrs. Hudson… come and sit so we may chat.”

      “Oh, Mycroft…”

      “Come, have a seat.  I’m certain you have many questions.”

John helped the very distraught Mrs. Hudson to the chair they’d brought in, then squawked loudly when Sherlock jerked him out of the room, closing the door behind them.

      “What in the hell are you doing?”

      “We must go.  Mycroft will keep her busy for some time, but we cannot let a minute of this opportunity slip by.”

      “Opportunity?  What are you talking about?”

      “Mrs. Hudson’s flat is currently unoccupied.”

      “And?”

      “Must I make an outline for you to follow this conversation?”

      “It seems you must.”

Sherlock huffed an annoyed breath, then grabbed his and John’s jackets, pushing the doctor out the front door of the flat.

      “Mycroft is going to keep Mrs. Hudson occupied and, perhaps… obtain from her more truth than she has been willing until this point to reveal.  We are going to search her flat for evidence to use against her husband.”

      “No.  No… we already agreed that was a terrible idea.”

      “You and Lestrade agreed, not I.”

      “Mycroft agreed, too!”

      “He has since come to his senses.  Once his pain-addled mind regained some measure of analytical ability, he saw the logic of my argument.”

      “Wonderful.  Just bloody wonderful.  The Loony Brothers working together on a… illegal plan!”

      “Talking to Mrs. Hudson is most certainly not illegal!”

      “Breaking into her flat is!  Snooping around is!  And Greg’s right, whatever we find can’t be used in court because it’s illegally obtained!”

      “Details.”

      “AARRRGGGHHHH!”

      “Do you require tea?  You seem to be calmer when you’ve had a cup of tea.”

      “This is insane!”

      “Yes, we shall stop for tea on the way.  And I recommend urinating before we reach our objective.  I shall not have my investigation interrupted by your excretory needs.”

      “Is there _any_ way I can talk you out of this?”

      “I find that highly unlikely.”

      “God… ok, but I’m only going with you to try to keep you out of jail if you get caught.”

      “ _We_ get caught, John.  If it helps, should it become necessary, I will do my best to protect you from molestation while we are in prison.”

      “Oh good.  I feel much better now.”

      “Do you still require tea?”

      “Might as well.  It could be the last decent cup I have for a very long time.”

      “We _do_ know the quality of police coffee.  Prison tea is undoubtedly a more distressing experience.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  Your optimism is a glorious thing to see.”

__________

      “Mycroft…”

The artist extended his hand and tried not to wince at the force with which his guest gripped it.

      “As you can see, visiting others in not something for which I am currently suited.”

      “What… Sherlock said there had been an accident, but…”

      “He did not wish to distress you.  Already he knew the news of our relocation would not likely please you and had no desire to add to your upset.”

      “He _should_ have told me!  I could have kept an eye on you!”

      “I have an abundance of eyes on me, Mrs. Hudson, though yours are always welcome.  Sherlock minds me during the day and Gregory, dear Gregory, never leaves my side at night.  Both went to great effort to ensure my hospital stay was a comfortable one and have not eased away from those efforts now that we are… home.  And, of course, there is John, who is ever vigilant for matters concerning my… recovery.”

      “What happened?  This isn’t… there _was_ no accident, was there?”

      “No… not as such.  It is a difficult story, but one I _will_ share if you desire to know.  Though, I do not think you will look upon me kindly when I am finished.”

      “Of course I will!  Mycroft, you’re giving me a bit of fright.”

The artist squeezed Mrs. Hudson’s hand once before letting it go and drew in a deep breath.

      “It _did_ pain me, you know, to live where we lived.  Knowing each day I was disgracing the roof under which I was housed.”

      “Disgraced?  Mycroft, you’re not making any sense!”

      “My art brings me much… joy, satisfaction, peace, clarity… but it does not bring money.  For that, I employed other means.  Sold something else.  Something far less valuable, but for which I could actually witness a profit.  I sold myself, Mrs. Hudson.  I labored as a common whore to see that all ends met, that Sherlock had food and clothing… money for school… I went into the streets and sold myself to any who wanted me.  For whatever they wanted, no matter how filthy or obscene.  Or… violent.”

      “Mycroft… no, no!  That isn’t you!”

      “It is, Mrs. Hudson.  Do not believe otherwise.  And it _has_ been for many, many years, though I have taken great pains to hide that fact.  My story is long and brings me nothing besides shame and the most profound sense of unworthiness for the good things I have recently found, but it is a story I would like to tell, if you are amenable to listening.”

      “Whatever you want to say, Mycroft Holmes, you say.  I’ll listen for as long as you want and as often as you want.  You poor dear, don’t hold back one thing.  Get all of that off your chest.”

      “Very well… in truth, this debilitation was a choice.  A free and willing choice, but one… perhaps if my life had been different, it is not a choice I would have thought to make…”

__________

      “Where did you learn to pick locks?”

      “Shh…  and, if you must know, I learned from Mycroft.  Occasionally he is useful for more than tidying the flat.”

      “The Loony Brothers are at it again.  This is unbelievable.”

      “Would you like to learn?”

      “Yes, please.”

      “Then we will begin by practicing on Lestrade’s door.  It is an embarrassingly simple mechanism, but adequate for the task of safeguarding the nothing that he owns.”

      “At least I won’t have to worry about locking myself out of my own flat anymore.  That’s a good thing to take away from this criminal offense.”

      “I am certain my solicitor will be happy to represent you if your continued pessimism and sarcasm delivers us into the hands of the authorities.”

      “I really should have had that second cup of tea.  My calm’s already wearing off.”

      “You are becoming as useless as Lestrade.”

      “Oh good, we can have our own little club.”

      “Ah… we’re in.”

Sherlock cracked the door slightly and listened for any sound of an inhabitant.  It was highly unlikely, but a nod to caution was not unwarranted.  Hearing nothing, the student pushed open the door further and made a visual observation of the interior.  With no one presenting themselves as a threat, he walked inside, motioning John to follow.

      “Well, there’s my spotless record ruined.  What should I look for now that I’m a criminal?”

      “Anything.  Correspondence, photographs, financial documents, physical items of interest… whatever we find, we shall copy the information and pass it to Lestrade.”

      “Should have brought a camera.”

      “If I had one, it _would_ have been part of our mission.”

      “I have one.”

      “And you said nothing _because_?”

      “I didn’t think about it.  And my flat’s in the opposite direction.”

      “Next time, we shall not forget.  The higher the quality of evidence, the greater its value.”

Sherlock shooed John away to begin looking, though John still had no idea exactly what constituted evidence.  Deciding to adopt Sherlock’s technique of looking through every possible nook, cranny and drawer for information, the doctor began examining each bit of paper he found, setting aside a few items for Sherlock to check.  After awhile, he took his pile of possibilities and laid them out for inspection.

      “Hmmm… this is interesting.”

      “Which bit?”

      “This sheet of numbers.  If I am not mistaken, these are bank account numbers.”

      “But there are more than a dozen of them.”

      “Your point?”

      “Normal people don’t have that many bank accounts.”

      “Which is why it is interesting.  And I believe it might connect with this.”

Sherlock pulled out a small ledger, filled with names and numbers.

      “What are you thinking?”

      “I don’t know, truthfully.  I found nothing like drugs or goods that appear overly abundant or out of place, indicating stolen property.  However, I did find something else of use.”

From his pocket, Sherlock pulled out a camera.

      “Alright… and what are you going to do with that?  Does it have…”

Sherlock pulled a roll of film, fresh in its package, out of the same pocket.

      “Not digital?  I’m shocked.”

      “I doubt the Hudson’s are as taken with technology as are you.  And, if you are truly desirous, I am certain you could afford a mobile phone, so we may shop for one today.”

      “How did you know I…”

      “You stare at everyone who possesses one and appear notably annoyed when we must stop and use a public phone.  Given your repeated declarations of poverty, it is not difficult to deduce why you do not, as of yet, own one.”

Well, there was no harm in looking… as long as he and Sherlock weren’t in an interrogation room being glared at by Greg.

      “That might be worth pursuing.  But back to the here and now; are we really just going to use the camera and steal their film?”

      “It is the most efficient way.  If it lightens your conscience, I will recompense Mrs. Hudson for the cost.  One small packet of biscuits should suffice.”

      “Which you’ll eat before you give them to her.”

      “What is the expression?  It’s the thought that counts?  Now, you shall be in charge of the materials and I will take the pictures.”

John shot Sherlock a highly exasperated look, but proceeded to lay out each piece of paper that Sherlock deemed photo-worthy and turned the pages so that each bit of the ledger was documented.

      “Very well, that should be sufficient.  We need to return all of this to its original location.  Be precise, John.  We must not arouse any suspicion.”

Following the instructions to the letter, John replaced every piece of paper exactly where he found it and, with only a small amount of embarrassment, wiped down any surface he touched to remove his fingerprints.

      “Excellent.  Now… how are your safecracking skills?”

      “What?”

      “Do you know how to open a safe?”

      “No.  Do you?”

      “In theory.”

      “And we’re talking about this why?”

      “There is a safe in the bedroom.”

      “Safecracking launches this into a completely different level of incarceration, Sherlock.”

      “Only if we are caught.”

      “Let’s not get caught then.”

      “That was my plan.”

John followed Sherlock into the bedroom and chivalrously refused to snoop about to gain a better picture of the personal life of the Hudsons.  Whatever he might learn would probably give him an aneurysm.

      “I will need complete silence, so breathe only when necessary.”

      “I’ll try to use as little oxygen as possible.”

      “Good.”

Wondering if it was a crime to kill your accomplice during the commission of a burglary, John stood quietly, contemplating the various ways he could dispatch Sherlock and hide his body so that he’d have long enough to make it to America before the police were on his trail.  America was big, so it should be easy to hide, and they paid doctors quite well, from what he understood.  He could even get a job with organized crime, doing patch jobs for all the bullet and knife wounds.  He had criminal experience now; that would actually be a boost to his resume.

      “Yes!”

Sherlock did a small victory dance and opened the safe door with one hand, while waving to silence John’s laughter with the other.

      “Camera.”

John handed over the camera and Sherlock began to take pictures of the safe’s contents in situ, before pulling out the individual items, such as two loaded firearms and several stacks of large-denomination notes for up-close photos.  More documents made their way onto film, as well, before Sherlock replaced the contents exactly as he removed it and closed the safe door.

      “Guns and money… that’s not at all suspicious.”

      “Is that sarcasm?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then I shall respond ‘no, not in the slightest.’ “

      “Well played, sir.  Now, can we leave?”

      “I see no point in remaining.  I rather doubt there is any purpose to prying the boards from the floor, but if what we have acquired today does not fit our needs, that might serve as the focus of our second initiative.”

      “No, we’re finished with our housebreaking careers.”

      “You cannot say that for certain.”

      “I believe I can.”

      “Nonsense.  There is absolutely no possibility of predicting the future and what it will bring.”

      “I think I can predict this with a very high degree of certainty, actually.”

      “Your tea has obviously lost its effectiveness.  We shall purchase another cup for you after we leave.”

      “Tea isn’t always the answer, Sherlock.”

      “Then you shall have none.”

      “… It’s sometimes the answer, though.”

      “There is a little shop not far from here and we can have the film developed nearby, as well.”

      “So, tea and more crime.  It’s half a nice time, at least.”

Sherlock quickly raised the camera and took a picture of the smiling John Watson.

      “Now the film is not entirely criminally besmirched.”

      “Very considerate of you.”

      “Of course, it does verify your presence in the flat if our slight bending of the legal code is ever brought to light.”

      “I’m not sure tea is going to be enough anymore, Sherlock.  A pint or two of your blood, on the other hand…”

      “That reminds me… I am owed two pints of expired blood from the lab at your hospital.”

      “What!  How in the world…”

      “I forged your name on the request.”

      “You… no, I’m not even going to pretend to be surprised.”

      “Good.  Wasting energy is ridiculously inefficient.”

      “I still want my tea.”

      “That is our very next stop.”

__________

Perhaps one day he could tell his story and not feel the deadening cold fill his insides, which alternated with a thick, oily heat like black asphalt that burned and choked the remaining light from his soul… but today was not that day.  And it was made no better by the toll his sordid tale was taking on his guest, even though, at its core, that was the point.

      “Oh, Mycroft… I am so sorry.  You poor thing; I never would have known.  You… you hide it so well.”

Mycroft reached over and handed another tissue to his former landlady and let her clear away the latest round of tears their conversation had produced.  But, she had opened a door that he could make use of very nicely.

      “One learns early to hide their woes from outside eyes.  Something, I feel, you understand better than most.”

The slight flinch might not be noticed by someone who wasn’t paying very close attention, but that was precisely what Mycroft was doing, so he didn’t miss a bit of it.

      “I don’t… I have no idea what you mean.”

      “I think you do.  I think you know the torment of an unkind hand, as well as do I.  The unending ache in your heart that only hope can give.  Every day you muster fresh hope that your life will change.  That the touch you dread will become something different, something better.  But it never does.  Oddly, though, you mind it less, with time.  Eventually, there are no more surprises, nothing happens that you have not endured countless times before.  It becomes a twisted and perverted routine that you accept because it seems there is no open door through which you can walk and leave your misery behind you.  I believe you know very well about that which I speak of and I grieve for that knowledge.  I grieve for it terribly.”

      “No… none of that is true.”

      “I have not missed the signs, you know.  Perhaps it was only my own experiences that made them visible, but I saw.  I saw and I knew.  I feel the terrible coward that I said nothing, that I failed to offer help.  I could not spare, it seemed, anything of myself for the world beyond what my arms could reach and I reached for nothing but Sherlock and my easel.  It has taken… _this_ … to give me the courage to reach out and offer that help that I have shamefully withheld.  And the offer encompasses all those who have built with me this household.  Sherlock and John are very worried and you know Gregory’s heart in the matter.  He has taken steps to remain visible, be a notable presence to help deter actions that might be called into question.  He cares… he cares so very greatly, as do we all.”

Mycroft hoped the older woman would meet his eye, but Mrs. Hudson steadfastly refused to do so.

      “What do you want, Mycroft?”

      “For you to be safe.  For you to find the life you deserve.  And you _do_ deserve it… I know it rings like a bell in your head that, perhaps, you do not deserve a good life.  I know the particular incessantness of that ringing very, very well.  And… I cannot say I do not hear it still.  I hear it often, actually, and I suspect it will always haunt me, though, hopefully, with less vitriol than it does now.  I see, I touch my beloved Gregory and am consumed with the feeling that I do not deserve someone so decent, honest and caring.  I could never deserve someone so _clean_.  Gregory, however, does not share my feeling and strives constantly to silence the tolling bell and give me peace.  Sometimes he succeeds, sometimes he does not, though I do not tell him that fact, for I feel in my bones that his efforts are not in vain.  That the lifeline he throws me… each day I place one hand above the other to climb that rope and one day, exactly when I do not know, but one day, I shall peer over the edge of the pit in which I have lived my life and see the sunlight.  Feel the heat and light on my face and know that I shall not sink again into the darkness.  That is what I want for you… to climb out into the sunshine and live the life you richly deserve.”

This time Mycroft struggled upwards and out of bed to hold the woman who collapsed into tears and _did_ deserve every bit of care and help he could provide.

      “I don’t know how, Mycroft.  I can’t leave…”

      “Why not?”

      “What would I do?  Where would I go?  And… he is not… I don’t know what he’d do if I left him.”

      “Whatever you need, we would happily provide.  We worry and we will do whatever we can to assist you.  I know, also… your husband… he consorts with those of an unsavory character, does he not?”

      “How… Yes, or no.  I don’t know for sure.  He doesn’t involve me in any of his dealings.”

      “But, you suspect?”

      “I… yes.  I know a little, mostly from what I’ve overheard, but… I’ve never been able to really make sense of it all.”

      “Would it upset you to learn that I can verify your suspicions?  That Sherlock witnessed him conversing with a notable member of the drugs community?  On your doorstep?”

Mrs. Hudson flicked her hand in a very Sherlockian manner, which made Mycroft chuckle despite the seriousness of the moment.

      “And that he and John are identifying that person and passing along the information to Gregory?  I have no idea where such might lead, but Sherlock is very hopeful it terminates in a row of bars between your husband and the civilized world.”

This time the reaction was different and even the most feeble-minded individual could not miss the quick flash of glee that lit in the woman’s eyes.

      “I suppose if there’s already an interest, there’s really nothing I can do about it, is there?”

      “No… no, the matter is quite out of your hands at this point.  Whatever shall be, shall be, I’m afraid.”

Another small flash, this time of extreme satisfaction and Mycroft felt a little more of the room’s stifling misery begin to wane.

      “Your young man… will he be involved in… whatever shall be?”

      “In truth, I do not know.  Gregory’s role in the police force is not an investigatory one, though that is the path he hopes to walk in the future.  However, I am certain that he will lend assistance in any manner he is able.”

      “Then I do hope he pops in for tea soon.  I like chatting with people, you know.  About all sorts of things.  Most of the time, I’m not even paying much attention to what I’m saying, so long as I’m having a nice visit.  I’m sure I say all sorts of things and don’t realize it.  All sorts of silly, silly things…”

This smile lingered and Mycroft used the last of his strength to give his landlady… former landlady… a firm hug.

      “Mycroft?  Oh, look at you!  Here, let’s get you settled again.  You poor dear… exerting yourself like this for me, it’s not healthy.”

      “But the cause is more than worthy, so I am content.  We are here for you, Mrs. Hudson.  For whatever you need, please do not hesitate to come to us.  Any of us.”

      “I will.  Thank you, Mycroft.  Really, thank you for this.  And you’ll do the same, right?  If you need anything, you _will_ tell me, won’t you.”

      “I will gladly make you that promise.  Now, let us speak of more pleasant topics.  The dark specters and spirits could likely use a rest and I, for one, am glad to give it to them.”

      “You’ll get no argument from me.  So… what do you think about Sherlock and _his_ young man?  They’re such a cute couple.  And a doctor!  You must be so proud…”

Proud was such a poor word for what he felt, but that was immaterial for the moment.  Sherlock was busily working to help another person, actively building a relationship with a man of quality and maintaining the ties with both himself and Gregory to keep their family strong.  Yes, it was certainly time to lock away the phantasms that haunted his mind and speak of happier things.  And revel in the fact that he _had_ happier things to speak of in his life…

__________

      “Sir?  You wanted this information?”

Lestrade peeked around his Inspector’s door and most certainly did not hide behind the folder in his hand for protection.

      “Yes, thank you.”

The ‘come in’ gesture set Lestrade’s legs in motion and in a moment he was handing over his information, which immediately was looked over by the man behind the desk.

      “Good.  This is helpful, PC Lestrade.  Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome, sir.  And Sherlock’s sure of the identity, too.  John confirmed it.”

      “Sherlock… that’s your partner’s brother, correct?”

      “You remembered that?  I mean, yes sir.  He is.”

      “Living in the Hudson’s building.  That’s one mystery solved.  Well, two, actually.”

      “Sir?”

      “Your Mycroft’s a local character; the lads wonder about him.  Where he lives, for example.  And… my wife’s mother lives next door to the Hudsons and mentions now and then the polite artist who lives in the basement flat.  Along with his testy little brother.”

      “Yeah, that would be a nice way of describing Sherlock.  He’s a good kid, really.  A student and smarter than you can imagine.  But… well, he hasn’t had it easy and doesn’t handle things very well when they don’t go his way.  Mycroft’s had a devil of a time with Sherlock, but he’s headed for big things.  We’re very proud of him.”

      “And they’re both living with you now, correct?”

      “Yes, sir.  Mycroft couldn’t stay where he was and recover properly.  It wasn’t… the nicest flat in London.  But they still have an interest in Mrs. Hudson.  Worry about her, actually… that’s why Sherlock came to me when he thought there might be trouble.”

      “I don’t think he’s wrong.  There’s an ongoing investigation hoping to squeeze shut some of the money lines fueling the drugs trade in the area.  Actually, it’s a part of a larger investigation that connects to others, both in and away from London.  Your mystery man… he’s not an unknown piece on the game board, but the Baker Street connection is new.  Not that I’m happy about it and I’ll have to keep this from my wife, which I will pay _dearly_ for later, but it’s valuable information.”

      “I’m glad.  It sounds like it’s a big case.  I hope… I hope it goes our way.  Is there anything else, sir?”

Said with barely suppressed and painfully-obviously, hint of hope in the young PC’s voice.  Since it was unprofessional to laugh at a subordinate, that certainly did not happen… though it was a close thing.  Young and eager to reach for bigger things.  It was very easy to remember what it was like to be that age and that hungry to prove one’s self… and have a little fun at the same time.

      “Actually, yes.  I’m going to pull you from your regular duties and give you a temporary reassignment.  We can use another body working this investigation and since you’re already involved, it might as well be you.  That is… if your partner is well enough.  You’re not going to be able to count on a fixed work schedule for this duty.”

      “Really?  Yes!  I mean, thank you, sir.  And I won’t let you down, I promise.  As for Mycroft… I think Sherlock will be willing to take over for me when he has to.  Anything that might affect Mrs. Hudson is something he’s going to care about and he’ll be willing to do a little extra.  And by the time the new term begins, Mycroft should have healed up enough to…”

      “Healed up?  I thought you said he was sick.”

      “I… well…”

The boy truly could not tell a substantial lie with any degree of conviction when he was flustered.  

      “Want to tell me the true story?”

      “Can I say no?”

      “What do you think?”

      “That no isn’t an option.  Alright, it’s like this… Mycroft… he’s not sick, per se… he had an accident, you see…”

      “Most people don’t try to hide an accident PC Lestrade.”

      “Ok, maybe _accident_ isn’t the quite the right word, but it’s what he’s going to tell people, so that’s what I’m going to say, too.”

Lestrade watched his Inspector stare at him and had an unhappy feeling he was being read like a very simple book written in large, clear letters.

      “How bad was it?”

      “Ummm… very.”

      “How very.”

      “He’s got broken ribs, some deep bruising, cuts, his knee’s in rough shape and… there’s other things, too, I’d rather not talk about if that’s alright.”

      “And he’s not willing to file a report.”

      “No, sir.”

      “We can’t help him unless he does that, you know.”

      “Yes, sir.  He’s adamant about it, though.  Doesn’t want people to… like you said, he’s a local character.  People don’t know a lot about him, but they’d find out about _that_ fast enough and it would kill him.  It would absolutely destroy him.”

      “And he’s not destroyed now?”

      “Yeah, but he’s got help.  John’s tending to his physical problems and… Mycroft’s going to see someone about his other problems.  Someone he can talk to who knows how to fix things that _aren’t_ physical, if you know what I mean.”

      “Lestrade… I take the safety of people in my jurisdiction very seriously.  You know we’ll do whatever we can to…”

      “I do, sir, and thank you for it.  He won’t change his mind, though, and I can’t put him through the stress of trying to force the issue.  He _is_ destroyed and what he needs now is to know he’s cared for, respected, safe and loved unconditionally.  Yes, I’d prefer we bring the bastard who did this to justice, but I can’t put my wants ahead of Mycroft’s.  Not for this.  I honestly believe it would do more harm than good.  A _lot_ more harm than good.”

Another long read of the open book that was him, but, at least, the story wasn’t anything he hadn’t already said aloud.

      “If that changes, you _will_ let me know immediately, correct?”

      “Yes, sir.  I will, sir.  All I want is what’s best for him and I’m going to do everything possible to make that happen.”

      “Very well.  Finish out your day and you’ll have your new assignment tomorrow.  Dress comfortably, but remember that you could be called at any time to interact with the public and you need to look respectable and professional.”

      “Yes, sir.  I can do that.”

      “Good.  Back to work, Lestrade.”

      “Yes, sir.”

Lestrade spun and had his wish granted that he make it out of the office without a last-minute problem leapt out to drag him back in front of the desk.  He was going to work the case!  An important case, too!  And he was going to be right in the thick of it.  Now all he had to do was make certain Mycroft and Sherlock were alright with him being a bit more unavailable than usual.  It hadn’t been a good feeling letting his Inspector believe that Mycroft had been the victim of some assault or even a hate crime, but it was close to the truth, so he could swallow that bit of dishonesty to spare his lover any possibility of the real story being leaked into the community.  That would kill Mycroft; that much was certain.  But he’d be happy about his.  He’d be very happy, because the one person who was more excited about his career than him was Mycroft.  Proud of what he did and what he wanted to do.  That was part of why they worked as a couple… neither wanted the other to have or do anything less than what they wanted most in this world and were terrifically proud of every step they took to reach those goals.  And this was a big step for his goals… a very big step indeed…

__________

      “No.”

      “Yes.”

      “No!”

      “Yes!”

      “I am _not_ going in first!”

      “It’s _your_ flat!”

      “You are my assistant.  It is your responsibility to catch the bullet should it be fired.”

      “Mrs. Hudson isn’t armed, you daft bastard!”

      “The loaded handguns in the safe argue otherwise.”

      “Get in there, you coward.”

      “How dare you!”

      “Save your indignation for when you’re not trying to hide behind me and won’t open the door to your own flat!”

      “I… urk!”

John pushed open the door and shoved Sherlock through, politely not commenting on Sherlock’s attempt to run back out, which required a second shove to push him squarely into the kitchen.

      “That was vile and treacherous.”

      “I have my moments.  Now, let’s go and say hello.”

      “No.”

      “I counter with yes.”

      “But Mrs. Hudson can talk for hours!”

      “So?”

      “Upper-middle-aged female talk!”

      “Oh my god, you’re impossible.”

John stalked to the bedroom door and noticed for the first time that he wasn’t hearing conversation.  Because Mrs. Hudson had apparently already left.

      “Ah, you finally choose to grace me with your presence.  I had wondered how long you would dither before braving the lion in his den.”

      “It wasn’t the King of the Jungle that had Sherlock worried, it was the Queen, but she’s already off to the hunt, it seems.”

      “Sherlock… avoiding Mrs. Hudson when she has kindly given her approval and future support for the downfall of her disgraceful mate.  How impolite and childish of you.”

John took the empty chair and made ‘keep going’ motions while Sherlock stood and pouted.

      “I am highly confident that whatever fruits your labors have uncovered shall not be allowed to rot on the vine.”

      “You told her we were investigating.”

      “I told her _Gregory_ was looking into the matter.  Later, when the pestilence is securely incarcerated, your role may be more fully divulged, at least to her.  Gregory is correct… there are procedures to be followed if evidence is to be used successfully in a prosecution.  Nothing must jeopardize that, especially something as inconsequential as ego.”

      “Good, because we found lots of fruit.  Sherlock, show him.”

Sherlock huffed, but drew a stack of photographs out of his pocket and handed them to Mycroft.

      “Hmmm… you _were_ the busy bees.  Whereas others trained for the task are better positioned to evaluate the importance of your information, I cannot envision they will not find it to be of use.  This is an excellent outcome of the day.  Truly, I am very pleased.”

As well as exhausted, in substantial pain and having a more difficult time breathing than normal, if John didn’t miss his guess.  Whatever had transpired while he and Sherlock were gone, it likely wasn’t a quiet and light-hearted few hours of visiting.  Something that was confirmed when his patient didn’t protest in the slightest taking the pain medication he had Sherlock dispense.

      “And Mrs. Hudson?  How badly did you appall her with your manners and appearance?”

      “Surprisingly, brother dear, very little.  We occupied the time you were engaged in your skullduggery with conversation and coming to a better understanding of each of our situations.  She had hoped to spend time with the two of you before she departed, but had errands to tend to and was forced to leave while you were… I see.  Is there a reason you could not spread your collective funds slightly thinner and bring to _me_ a cup of tea?”

John started to ask how Mycroft knew about the tea, but Sherlock waved off his question with a bored flick of his wrist.

      “John drained our tea funds as surely as he did the actual tea from the cup.  I believe he has what is called ‘a problem.’ “

      “Which makes him excellently suited for inclusion in our little family.”

      “And on that note, Mycroft, I’ll go and _make_ a cup of tea for you and forestall any further conversation about me, because talking about a person behind their back is impolite and you wouldn’t do that since you just chided Sherlock for being impolite and you wouldn’t want to be called out for hypocrisy.”

John smiled smugly and strolled out of the bedroom, leaving Mycroft to shake his head in wonder.

      “John truly is an innocent soul, the poor man.”

      “It is to be expected that normal people have flaws.  His could be worse, I suppose.”

      “Far worse.  You are truly blessed, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson believes so, as well.  She is very satisfied with your choice of partner.”

      “John is not my partner.”

      “Boyfriend is such a ghastly word, but if you prefer…”

      “No.  And you are not so enfeebled that I will feel shame demonstrating my objection to that descriptor in highly physical terms.”

      “Very well, I suppose the conveying of a label can be tabled for now.  But, I _am_ happy for you, Sherlock.  Not everyone in this world finds someone who complements them so agreeably.”

      “I am a superior human being, so it should be no surprise that I would be wildly successful securing a… John.”

      “Of course, how silly of me to let that particular fact go unremarked.”

      “You are impaired, so I am prepared to forgive you.”

      “As further proof of your superiority.”

      “I believe in making well-documented points.”

__________

Lestrade felt no shame dancing his way into the flat and continuing for a moment to work off his jubilant energy in the kitchen.  What a day!  And now he was home to share that day with the man he loved.  No harm keeping the dance going until…

      “And look who we have here… everybody!  This is convenient.  Won’t have to break my good news more than once.  Not that I’d mind, but I sort of like having a bigger audience.”

John, Sherlock and Mycroft looked up from the newspaper they’d been discussing and Mycroft felt his grin growing as wide as the one Lestrade was sporting.

      “An audience, my dear?  And is there an admission fee we must pay to bear witness to what I am certain will be your very impassioned oration?”

Lestrade hopped twice like a large rabbit and gave Mycroft a big, loud kiss, before bunny-hopping back to where he’d been standing and grinned even more widely than before.

      “All paid up, thank you very much.”

      “Quickly, John.  We must leave before he attempts to exact the same from us.”

      “Oh sit down, you tosser.  Mycroft gladly paid your fee.”

      “And now may we have your news?  Do not leave us in suspense, Gregory.”

      “Alright… not that you can spread this around, because you can’t.  Not at all, not to anyone, but since you’re already involved… that information you brought me, Sherlock… it was good.  Really good.  There’s an investigation already in progress, a very big one, and it actually fits into the whole business.  And guess who’s being brought in to help?  Me!  I’m getting temporarily reassigned to assist with the case!”

If it was possible for a heart to grow from pride alone, Mycroft was certain his would be the largest of any human in creation.

      “Gregory… I am… I am so happy for you!  This is astounding news, simply astounding!”

Mycroft struggled and mostly succeeded in controlling the tears of joy that welled up in his eyes and wondered if he would ever learn what he had done to deserve such a man in his life.

      “Good.  That will simplify John and my efforts.”

      “What?  No!  No, Sherlock, you are _not_ getting involved in this.  It’s bigger than we suspected and…”

      “And you will likely need the input of individuals who are actually possessed of intelligence greater than that of a root vegetable.”

      “Thanks for that.  Really, anytime I want the joy sucked out of my life, you’re the man I’m going to call.”

      “Do not disparage the messenger when he delivers a truthful message, Lestrade.  Besides, without John and I, you would not have _this_.”

Sherlock picked the photographs off of the bedside table and passed them to the PC.

      “What is this?”

      “Evidence.”

      “Of what?”

      “That is for you to determine.  I cannot be expected to do all of your work for you.”

Lestrade looked more closely at the photographs and hoped he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing.  Even if it looked _very_ interesting…

      “Where did you get this?”

      “From Mrs. Hudson’s flat.  John and I searched the premises while Mycroft kept Mrs. Hudson occupied here.  I trust you agree that this is damning proof of criminal behavior.  I expect an arrest to be made by morning.”

Sherlock had no idea why John and Mycroft were laughing, but it was clear from their juvenility that neither of them was capable of spearheading an investigation of such magnitude.  Luckily, _he_ was exceedingly well-suited for the task.

      “First off… this is fucking illegal!  You broke into Mrs. Hudson’s flat…”

      “I did not confess to that.”

      “Well… _did_ you break in?”

      “Yes, but you made an assumption and I am insulted by your low opinion of John.”

      “Moving on to the second point, the one after the fucking illegality, is… well, the fucking illegality is really the only point, but there’s nothing wrong with putting it on the list twice.”

      “Gregory… if I may…”

      “No, you may not, you accomplice!”

      “Well, I never…”

      “And not even the after-the-fact sort since you had to know what was going to happen _before_ it happened!”

      “Your lover is a hysteric, Mycroft.  My chromosomes are humiliated that they share alleles with yours.”

      “And what about you, John?  Want to add your personal piss to my parade?”

      “Hmmm… sorry, I was napping.  Did you say something?”

      “Christ…”      

      “GREGORY, IF I MAY…”

      “Oh fine.  Give me more reason to have to arrest you lot.  And look at this one!  John smiling right in the middle of the crime scene.  I’ll make copies so each of you can have one in your cell.”

      “If you can remain calm for one minute, my dear, let me share with you a viewpoint that might ameliorate your outrage.  Sherlock and John have obtained for you a body of information that is highly intriguing.  At the very least, it points to the need to investigate matters further, which confirms the news you shared with us earlier.  Whereas I grant that these specific photographs may not be admissible in court, it will be a simple matter to obtain more and in a perfectly legal manner.  My discussion with Mrs. Hudson was not merely a diversion, you see; it was also to assure her of our desire to see her safe and well and secure her cooperation with whatever actions you may need to take.”

      “YOU TOLD HER?”

      “Volume, Gregory, please… Mrs. Hudson will not reveal anything as she is most keen to see the conclusion we also are eager to witness.  Besides, she has no active role in this and must simply wait for the outcome, going about her normal, daily business until it arrives.  However, she has stated, as she has before, that you are very welcome to visit her.  And I am most certain that during those visits, she will be happy to give you a thorough tour of her flat.  Perhaps allow you to document the property with your own camera.  She is very proud of her décor and would love to provide you with mementos to better remember it.  With her full knowledge and permission.”

      “Oh.”

      “Yes.”

      “That’s actually… not a fucking illegality.”

      “I thought not.”

      “And it’s a good idea.”

      “Here, you may take these with you so you are aware of what loveliness you might wish to photograph.  Though… I am not certain if you shall be able to replicate those of the safe’s contents.  I would not be at all surprised if Mrs. Hudson was not in possession of the combination.”

      “If need be, I shall return and open it myself.  It was a trifling matter.”

      “Just don’t breathe while he does it.  Sherlock is very much opposed to breathing when he’s trying to crack a safe.”

      “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, John.  Please don’t bring the idea of arresting you bastards back into my head.”

      “And on Greg’s slightly tunnel-visioned note, I need to go to my very legal and not at all arrestable work.  Mycroft, try and get some rest.  Sherlock?  Walk me out?”

Before Sherlock could ask why John needed help finding the door, John pulled the student out of the bedroom with him, leaving Mycroft and Lestrade alone.

      “Well, Mr. Criminal… you had a busy day.”

      “Really, Gregory… were I to embark on a career in crime, my deeds would be decidedly more devious and far-reaching.”

      “Then I’m happy you’re settled with your art.”

      “And _I_ am happy you are receiving such an advantageous opportunity.  Truly, I could not be prouder.  You are a wonder, Gregory, and a wonder I am exceptionally gratified to call mine.”

      “Well, I have to keep up with _you_ , don’t I?  Can’t shame the world’s greatest artist by being a lazy copper when there’s important work to be done.”

      “Silly boy… as if you could ever shame me.  Every day I wake and feel blessed to have you by my side.  But this… I know you are excited for this chance, my dear and I am positively thrilled for you.”

      “I won’t lie, I am nearly _exploding_ with excitement!  Even Sherlock and John’s lawbreaking isn’t dampening my energy.”

      “They had good intentions, Gregory.  The most noble and caring of intentions.”

      “ _And_ they wanted an adventure.”

      “Well… I shall not completely deny the truth of that assertion.  However, their adventurous streak could have been put to a far less productive and far more _destructive_ use, so I believe we should be thankful for the turn taken by their interest.”

      “You’re probably right.  And… they did get some very interesting information.  I’ll see who I’m assigned to tomorrow and find out what they already know.   Ask a few hypothetical questions and maybe show a few of these photos to people I know who can keep their mouths shut until I can actually get some legal versions to officially bring into the investigation.”

      “But you _do_ think the information will be useful.”

      “Oh yeah... of what, exactly, I won’t know until I know more about the case, but a page full of bank account numbers, cash and guns… even if it turns out to have no connection to this particular case, I bet it has a connection to _some_ case and I’ll make sure the bastard gets what’s coming to him.  How… how was Mrs. Hudson, anyway?”

      “Relieved, in the end.  We did not have an… _easy_ conversation.  I shared my inner darkness to draw out her own and… let us simply say it is not a process I look forward to repeating when I visit the individual John has found to partner with me for therapy.  But it _was_ an effective technique and I believe she realizes now how greatly we care and the depth of our worry, as well as our knowledge of her plight.  The hardest thing of all is to reveal one’s self, but once that has been accomplished… there is an undeniable relief blended with the pain and that is of tremendous value.”

Lestrade toed off his shoes and carefully settled himself on the bed, wrapping his arms gently around his lover.

      “You amaze me every day.  Not a single day goes by that you don’t completely amaze me.  I love you, Mycroft Holmes.  And, when you’re feeling better, I’m going to take you out on the town for a special night to show you just how much.”

      “You _do_ show me, my dear; without a word or conscious action, you telegraph your feelings and I am profoundly grateful that I have found a man who loves me so deeply.  However, I, of course, will never refuse an offer to take your arm for an evening.  You are a scintillating escort and an incomparably handsome one, as well.”

      “Then, it’s a date.  Now, do you think those two are finished snogging so I can get us a little of your special wine?”

      “Hmmm… that is rather difficult to say.  It was clearly evident that both Sherlock and John found their excursion rather… invigorating.”

      “Ah hah… our boys got a special thrill from a little danger?”

      “That, and from the challenge.  I do hope Sherlock will not develop another addiction.  One is quite enough for this lifetime.”

      “At least John will be there to share it with him.”

      “I am not entirely certain that is a comforting thought.”

      “Yeah, that’s true.  I’m going out there right now to throw cold water on their danger lust.”

      “Do be kind, Gregory.  Sherlock chills so very easily.”

      “Don’t’ worry love.  They won’t get more than a bit of shriveling iciness.  Then, I’ll come back here for a little stiffening warmth.”

And there was that lovely shade of pink that graced his Mycroft’s cheeks when he was caught off guard with a bit of naughtiness.  It was the most beautiful color in the world…

      “Gregory… are you suggesting a romantic liaison?”

      “It’s a night of celebration, right?  Sherlock will be off at his lab, John will be treading hospital corridors… it’ll just be you and me alone in the flat.  A little non-boozy wine, maybe a few candles… all the romance my Mycroft deserves and my chance to show him just what a gorgeous, sexy, brilliant, larcenous bad boy I think he really is.”

      “I cannot think of a single objection to your plan.  Please, do implement it at your earliest convenience.”

      “Count the seconds.”

__________

      “Fuck off, you two, it’s about to get sexy in here.”

      “Hold me, John… I believe I am going to be ill.”

Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s… his… jacket, threw it at the student, opened the flat door and shoved the two romantic roadblocks out of the door, closing it and locking it behind them.

      “Rude.”

John pulled Sherlock along and out of the building, chuckling at his friend’s irritation.

      “Maybe, but I’d be doing the same if I was about to show my lover a good time.  And Mycroft deserves a good time tonight.  I think his conversation with Mrs. Hudson was a lot harder on him than he wants us to think.”

      “There is no doubt.  He believes he is inscrutable, but now, while his emotions are tenuously-controlled, he is as transparent as window glass.”

      “Then well done Greg making him feel better.  Don’t worry, Sherlock, if you have a bad day, I’ll be happy to show you some romance to boost your spirits.”

      “I accept your offer.”

      “Oh good, glad that’s sorted.”

      “And I should, I suppose, thank you, John, for your assistance today.  My efforts would still have been successful, but not as rapid or… as enjoyable were you not present.”

A bit of felonious excitement and now a compliment from Sherlock.  John had to admit that today really wasn’t much of a disaster, after all.

      “You’re quite welcome.  And here… here’s my thanks for bringing me with you.”

John drew Sherlock down for a kiss, which deepened quickly and left both men out of breath and trying to be nonchalant about camouflaging other effects of the kiss on their anatomy.

      “I will see you in the morning?”

      “Uh, no, actually.  Sorry, Sherlock, but I’m scheduled to work tomorrow, so I won’t be available until tomorrow night.”

      “Very well, I shall make dinner for you instead of breakfast.”

      “You’re starting to like cooking, aren’t you?”

      “No, but I lack the funds to purchase food for you at a restaurant.”

      “Practical.  I like that.  And we can cook together, how does that sound?  Or Greg can cook.  I _will_ need to get some sleep at some point, though.”

      “That should not be a problem.  The bed in your flat is not dissimilar in comfort to Lestrade’s sofa.  I shall endure, if I must.”

John stopped walking and stared at Sherlock, who began to feel uncomfortable under the doctor’s gaze.

      “You want to stay at _my_ flat?”

      “Is that… wrong?”

      “What?  No!  No, of course not.  I’m just surprised, since you know how crap it is.  I’d love to have you there, though.  It’s a great suggestion, actually.”

That brought a smile back to Sherlock’s face and John took an internal deep breath because sleeping next to Sherlock, in a bed big enough for… shenanigans… was going to be hard.  Well, _he_ would be hard and he very much doubted Sherlock would be ready to take care of that for him.  He hadn’t asked, hadn’t pried, but if he was Sherlock’s first kiss, then… yeah, patience was going to be key and he’d give Sherlock all the time and patience he needed.  But nobody said it was going to be easy…


	35. Chapter 35

      “I can’t wear this!”

Mycroft was giving his injured ribs quite the challenge by holding in the laughter he was desperate to spray around the room.  Lestrade had been at this since dawn…

      “Gregory, your appearance is most professional.”

      “I look like I’m going to a Christmas party at church!”

      “And that is not the presentation for which you were hoping.”

      “Nobody hopes for that presentation!  It’s about as bad as the ‘tea with Gran in the suit she bought you’ look!”

      “Very well.  What image are you attempting to portray?”

      “A detective!”

      “Do you have the requisite trenchcoat and fedora?”

      “Funny man.  Just what I needed.”

      “It is a tad early, but I am certain Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t mind examining her closets for a skirt, blouse and pair of practical shoes, if you believe today requires a more Miss Marple approach.”

      “Just because I love you, it doesn’t mean I won’t murder you.”

      “I think it does, actually.”

      “Yeah, that was pretty pathetic.  Couldn’t even muss your hair without feeling guilty.”

      “Completely untrue.  My hair was quite mussed last evening and I smelled not a whiff of regret on you.”

Lestrade flashed Mycroft a grin that made the artist’s insides quiver.

      “Look at you trying to distract me with a little sexy talk.”

      “Which is working.”

      “Which is definitely working.  I’ve got no willpower when it comes to you, love.  Not a bit.  So turn your commanding self towards helping me not look like a berk today.  I want to make a good impression, but not _look_ like I’m trying to make a good impression.”

      “A very sound strategy.  Does the situation necessitate a jacket?”

      “Ummm… I don’t know.  It’s supposed to be cold today, though, so maybe not a jacket jacket, but just a jacket will be alright.”

      “Was that some form of code?”

      “I’m going to make a fool of myself today, aren’t I?”

Mycroft patted the bed and Lestrade sat down, leaning into the rub Mycroft was giving his back.

      “You are _not_ going to make a fool of yourself, Gregory.  You are going to showcase your formidable talents and make a valuable contribution to the work to which you are assigned.  It is not possible for you to do otherwise.  Now, you will attire yourself in the same garments that you wore when you collected me from hospital, with the addition, if you feel it appropriate, of a tie that I will help you select.  If I remember correctly, there is a grey jacket in your wardrobe that you will add to your ensemble, greeting your colleagues for the first time with it draped over your arm, rather than worn on your back.  It will be clear that you are prepared for a situation where a more formal presentation is needed, but are not, as you say, trying to impress your new co-workers.  Does that meet with your approval?”

Lestrade’s excited ‘Yes!’ was punctuated by a thank-you kiss for his lover and a mad dash to the closet to get dressed for the final time.  It was then the work of some moments for Mycroft to shoo the PC out of the bedroom because Lestrade believed more than a quick thank-you peck was deserved.  Finally, gaining momentum, Lestrade scrapped his idea of getting coffee on the run in case a fumble-fingers incident made his shirt a piece of modern art and quickly threw down a little breakfast as soon as his brew hit a cup.  Which aggravated Sherlock to no end, as the returning student had hoped to time his arrival so that Lestrade would have to prepare _two_ breakfast plates.

      “Ugh.  Your funeral wear, again.”

      “No, this is my professional detective outfit.  Personally designed by your brother, so I know it looks amazing.  How many people get to have an artist design their ‘first day at work’ clothes?  I’m a rarified individual.”

      “Civilization is crumbling and I am witness to the lowest point of its destruction.”

      “Hope you take some photos.  Legal ones this time, ok?  I should tell you, though, Sherlock… I don’t know what time I’ll be home.  They could decide to lay all the drudge work on the new lad and I’m there half the night.  Is that going to be ok?”

      “Hmmmm, that _will_ intrude upon my planned activities with John.”

      “I’m not going to try and stay late, but if I have to, I can’t say no.  Besides, you and John can start the night here.  Find a film to rent, cook something for dinner… have a date at home until I get back, then you can hit the clubs or whatever it was you had planned.”

      “Actually… we had planned on having dinner here and you were going to cook it.”

      “Oh, nice adding me to your date night as a personal slave.  Really, thanks, I feel so special.”

      “You should.  We _could_ consider your food-preparation skills unacceptable and demand funds for a professionally-prepared meal.”

      “Ok, I guess I can consider your enforced labor to be a compliment, if I toss all of my self-esteem into the bin, but I can’t promise anything tonight.  Hold on…”

Lestrade quickly looked through the cupboards, as well as the refrigerator and ran a few scenarios through his head before settling on an idea.

      “I know you’re scared of chicken…”

      “I am not afraid of chicken!”

      “Like I said, I know you’re scared of chicken, and we don’t have any anyway, so you’re safe for that.  And I assume you don’t want to launch into the wonderful world of roasts quite yet or try something exotic, so pasta it is.  You can never go wrong with that, but it doesn’t mean you can’t impress John with something special.  We’ve got sauce, but you can add things to it to make it especially good.  A little extra olive oil or a touch of wine, experiment with a few spices… you’re a chemist, so this should be child’s play.  I’ll leave you a little bit of cash for bread and another bottle of cheap wine, maybe a wedge of good cheese to grate on top of everything.  John’s going to worship you, when he gets a taste of everything.”

      “I am already deserving of idolatry.”

      “Ok then, you don’t need my money.”

      “Idols require tribute.”

      “Did you really just say that?”

      “It seemed appropriate.”

Lestrade shook his head and smiled as he tossed a few notes on the table and gave Sherlock a little bow.

      “Have a good day, Your Worshipfulness.  Any words of encouragement for me?”

      “Sitting at a desk all day is going to make you fat.”

      “Always a pleasure to receive your benediction.”

__________

Lestrade would never admit… except, maybe, to Mycroft… how nervous he was approaching the offices he was going to get to know over the next… however long they decided to keep him here.  But, and he _would_ admit this to Mycroft, when he stepped inside, he was dressed right in line with everybody else.  No one gave him a ‘oh, look at the rookie’ smirk, either, as he walked through the desks to introduce himself to his new immediate supervisor and find out where to get started.  Which was, apparently, a desk of his own and a stack of folders that nearly reached to the top of his head when he sat down in his chair.  Damn Sherlock and his psychic powers!  But this is the sort of thing he wanted to know.  The type of thing he wanted to learn.  The idea of being a detective was sort of romantic and had that air of adventure about it, but the real job was a lot of hard work doing what he was doing right now.  Going through information looking for connections, patterns, the thing that didn’t fit or pointed to a great fat lie.

So he now had stacks of documents and records on property holdings and he was going to have to ask a lot of questions because he knew nothing about deeds and liens and property transfers and holding companies and all the other things he noticed when he browsed through the first few files, but that was ok.  He wasn’t scared to ask questions.  Greg Lestrade wasn’t the stupid tosser who tried to pretend he knew everything and made a _mess_ of everything because he wouldn’t ask a bloody question!  He knew he needed to learn and so did everyone here, so he was going to take advantage of it and learn all he could.  Help with whatever was going on and try to experience every part of the job they’d let him put his fingers into.  But yeah… Mycroft’s enticement pastries might have to be a little less frequent or Sherlock’s predictions were definitely going to come true…

__________

Sherlock had never had very pleasant things to say about his brother’s art, but there was one that always occupied a place on the ‘positives’ list.  When his brother worked, he lost contact with the world and, therefore, required no attention.  When his physical condition could be described as something besides disastrous, the attention needed truly was naught.  Even now, however, only the occasional cup of tea and trip for personal business was necessary.  As such, he could concentrate on his own work.  And John.  Which was problematic, since his research was vital and needed to take priority in his thoughts.  But… it didn’t.  Not always.  Other things were beginning to creep into the edges of his mind, and that was disconcerting.  Not necessarily, however, unpleasant.  Thinking about John was certainly not unpleasant.  It was, though, _distracting_ and he didn’t understand why that was not infuriating him.  It should.  Anything else that distracted him from his work met his wrath, but not John.  Never John.

      “Ah Sherlock, it seems you are hard at work.”

His brother, however…

      “Your powers of observation are astounding, Mycroft.  Next, you will tell me the sun is shining.”

      “Doubtful, for it is not.”

Sherlock looked up from his books for the first time in two hours and gazed through the window at the heavily overcast sky.

      “Oh.  Anyway, it is irrelevant.  Your inanity needs no example.”

      “I strive to be as transparent as possible.”

      “Then return to bed and contemplate your failed opacity.”

      “I think not.”

      “Is this another tedious urination break?”

      “Physiology is a pesky creature, isn’t it?  But, no, that is not my objective.  Rather the opposite, actually.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glared at his brother, hoping to deduce his meaning, but not finding success.

      “Explain.”

      “I am going to prepare a cup of tea.”

      “No.”

      “I believe I shall respond with yes.  I will prepare two, in fact, if you would like one.”

      “Go to bed.  My purpose for being here is to tend to those matters.”

      “My point exactly.”

This glare was more ferocious than the last, but this time Sherlock had an unsettling feeling he had hold of the thread of his brother’s thinking.

      “Now is not the time to assert your independence, Mycroft.”

      “It is precisely the time.  Gregory’s work schedule will no longer be predictable and that will impose an undue burden on you.  Gregory and you have done quite your share towards my recuperation and it is time that I begin to carry more of the load.”

      “You have not walked the distance to the toilet unescorted since you arrived here and you now believe that you can saunter to the kitchen, prepare tea and make it back to your bed without collapsing into a quivering mass of flailing limbs and tea-stained pyjamas?  You’re an idiot.”

      “And if I never challenge myself to, as you say, saunter to the kitchen, I will have little idea when such a trip will be possible.  So far, I find myself quite hale and hearty.”

      “Hale and hearty does not equate with shaking and threatening to break a sweat.”

Mycroft waved off his brother’s negativity and slowly shuffled towards the kitchen, pretending not to notice Sherlock’s on-alert body posture and hopefully not telegraphing to Sherlock just how much he had overestimated his abilities.  This was, perhaps, not as well thought out as he had believed.

      “If John were here I would have a wager with him on when you meet with structural failure.”

      “Your encouragement warms my heart.”

      “Already you are showing stress fractures and that is before you even try to lift the kettle.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “You were grievously injured and it is to be expected that you will need time to heal from it.  It is an unfortunately consequence of living.”

      “Heal is the key, brother.  Heal and progress and gain back myself.  That will not occur if I continue to lie about like a pampered pet.”

      “And overtaxing yourself is counterproductive to your goals.”

      “John shall be most proud that you have paid attention to his lessons in medicine.”

      “But he shall not be proud that _you_ have not.  Go back to bed and I will bring you your tea.”

      “No, I have not yet incapacitated myself.  If you wish, however, you might come in here to accept your cup and save me the additional steps to the sofa to deliver it.”

Sherlock snorted loudly, but relocated, dropping into a kitchen chair, rather than hovering by his brother as the artist very shakily poured water into their cups.

      “I assume that after this burst of rebellion, you shall return to bed.”

      “Perhaps.  One does grow tired of one’s surroundings after awhile.”

      “You are only medically-cleared _for_ your current surroundings.”

      “I desire a change.”

      “Your desires are immaterial.”

      “I disagree.  And shall express that disagreement thusly.”

      Mycroft handed Sherlock his cup, then set his own on the table, pulled out a chair and slowly lowered himself into it, refusing to acknowledge Sherlock’s highly disapproving glare.  The excruciating stab of pain that rewarded him for sitting his weight in the hard, unforgiving chair, without the soothing benefit of his medication, was something he couldn’t hide from Sherlock and the surprise of his brother reaching over to grasp his shoulder added its own emotional surge to the experience.

      “And we are back to a discussion of idiocy.”

      “Perhaps this was a slightly hasty decision.”

Mycroft let his eyes close to reduce external stimuli as he concentrated on blocking out the pain.  He had been somewhat successful at eliminating from his mind the sources of his various aches, quelling the moment-to-moment memory of receiving each one, but now it was all returning and the typhoon of that emotion was far too powerful to keep behind any mental dam.

      “Oh, Mycroft…”

Sherlock leapt up from his chair and carefully assisted his brother upwards, slowly walking him back to the bed and settling him back onto the soft mattress with his even softer pillows and warm blankets.  Sherlock then used some water in Mycroft’s beside pitcher to wet a flannel for his brother wipe away the deluge of salty tears that were staining his face.

      “I am s… so sorry, Sherlock.”

      “You have nothing to apologize for besides idiocy, and I am quite used to that from you by now.  You will not compound that impression by refusing your medication.”

Sherlock quickly got one of Mycroft’s pills then, thinking a moment, added a second and poured a small cup of water, handing both to his brother and watching closely that both pills went to their intended location.  Then it was the rather awkward wait while Mycroft composed himself, though Sherlock was very proud of himself that he applied a selection of comforting pats to his brother’s distraught form… and they seemed to help.

      “I… I would appreciate it if you did not inform John or Gregory about this.”

      “Provided you show no lingering physical effects, I agree to keep silent.”

      “That is acceptable.”

      “Would it… would it help to talk?”

      “John has found someone…”

      “I do not mean with another of the bone-rattling set.  I meant… would it help to talk to me?”

      “Sherlock… I cannot express how greatly I appreciate the offer, however, I do not wish to burden you with my weakness.”

Sherlock weighed the value of succinctly outlining his opinion of that statement or attempting a different tactic to communicate with his brother.  Unfortunately, the most successful tactics he had employed to date involved employing sides of himself he was decidedly unsure about utilizing but, it was not as if anyone but Mycroft would witness his failure, should it occur.  And he could not deny his responsibility for what his brother had suffered… and continued to suffer.

      “I gleaned from the various hospital personnel and from John that your responses are normal for your situation.  In truth, John is highly impressed by the degree to which you have suppressed the potential, even likely, impacts of your experiences and have crafted a functional life.  He says you are to be admired for what you have accomplished, given your circumstances, and that any aberrations in behavior or personality are temporary and attributable to the confluence of significant events in a unique maelstrom of both adversity and opportunity.  Further… he is happy this maelstrom has occurred, since it provides the mechanism for you to heal the pains you have been concealing for so long and these aberrations are signs that the healing is in progress.  I do not see why you would specifically term that weakness.  You used the term progress, earlier; I believe that to be the better descriptor.”

Mycroft looked at his brother in stunned silence and Sherlock took that as a sign that he hadn’t bungled matter yet, and pressed on.

      “Now… may we talk about today?  I believe John would encourage it, even it is only a cursory discussion of what is weighing on your mind.”

Mycroft continued to stare at his brother, but eventually, motioned Sherlock to take a seat, which the student did quickly.

      “What do you wish to know, Sherlock?”

      “I believe I understand your reason for attempting to demonstrate that you no longer require the level of attention that Lestrade, John and myself have been providing.  I, however, do not agree with it.”

      “Which aspect?”

      “Your perception that you impose an undue burden on us.”

      “I would assert that my perception on that issue is quite accurate.”

      “I would argue the term ‘undue.’ “

      “Explain.”

      “There is no denying that your condition imposes on Lestrade and myself extra responsibilities and calls upon our time, but as Lestrade is your… whatever term you prefer… and I am your brother, it is our duty to accept those impositions as a feature of our respective relationships.  You would be called to do the same for either of us, should a similar situation arise.  There is burden, but it is not an undue one.”

      “I will concede your analysis has some merit, however… this well exceeds the bounds of standard caregiving.”

      “That is most certainly not the case.  I could list any number of illness- or injury-based scenarios that required a degree of care similar to or greater to what you require.”

      “And how many on your list were voluntarily acquired?”

      “That does not matter.”

      “I believe it does.”

      “Your belief is wrong.  Anyway, I would argue the term ‘voluntary.’ “

      “My, what a pettifogger you are today for vocabulary.”

      “It seems the most efficient way of deconstructing your delusion.  And I am inarguably correct.”

      “Sherlock… I willingly went to where I knew I could secure the type of… work… required to earn the money we required.  I signed the appropriate contract, subject to no duress, presented myself at the appointed address and never, not a single time, refused whatever was… well, there was little that was actually asked… let us say, I did not protest whatever was done to me.  I believe the term ‘voluntary’ very nicely sums up my behavior.”

      “Not we.”

      “Pardon?”

      “You said ‘money we required’ and that is incorrect.  It was money _I_ required.  The difference between those two pronouns is immeasurable.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “You assume full responsibility for my actions and that is not appropriate.  If you are allowed to say that you voluntarily chose your fate and should be called to answer for your actions alone and unaided, then I should be allowed to say the same thing.  Strangely, I don’t remember that happening.”

      “Sherlock… it is my responsibility…”

      “If I were four years old, that statement might carry weight.”

      “I am your brother, Sherlock…”

      “As I am yours.”

      “It is not the same.  You have no idea, Sherlock… from the moment I was allowed to see you after your birth… I cannot describe it.  With one glance, I loved you with my entire heart, a heart which I promised you would always hold you fast.  I committed myself then and there to you and vowed, even at that young age, to do everything I could to protect you from any hardship.  To give you everything I possibly could to make you happy.  In so many ways… in so, so many ways I have failed you and I acknowledge that without hesitation, but I have always tried.  I have always done everything in my power to keep that vow.  To ensure you had the best I could give you.  From the very moment I first laid eyes on you, I dedicated myself to keeping you well and safe and seeing you were able to do with your life whatever remarkable thing you were destined to do.  And every night, as I rocked you and watched you sleep, I made fresh my promise to you and I have never, _never_ wavered from it.”

Mycroft realized he had a stranglehold on a handful of blanket and unclenched his fist, using the action as a focus to calm his breathing.

      “Mycroft…”

      “I have never wavered from that promise, Sherlock.  I did everything I could… remained vigilant for any obstacle, any threat…”

      “But, you didn’t need…”

      “You deserved that, Sherlock.  You deserved everything I could give you.  You were my _brother_.  My precious baby brother… the most important person in my world… the person I thought…”

Mycroft stopped abruptly and shook his head sharply, remaining silent when he was done, only lifting his eyes so far as to stare into the distance, far from his brother’s glare.

      “Continue.”

      “No, that is quite enough.”

      “I think not.”

      “It is not a matter for discussion.”

      “You behavior indicates this is an issue of some importance and now is as good a time as any to lay it out plainly.”

      “Sherlock, please…”

      “Are you concerned… are you again trying to protect me?”

Mycroft laughed a quiet, brittle laugh and shook his head.

      “I cannot deny that is a high-probability reason for many of my actions.”

      “Then I have a vested interest in you completing your thoughts.  And… I _want_ to know.”

Mycroft’s eyes cut slightly towards his brother, hearing the somewhat nervous tone in his voice and, after taking a deep and regretful breath, nodded and continued on.

      “Childhood was not a joyful time for me, Sherlock, and for a variety of reasons.  The pursuits I enjoyed were solitary ones, I had difficulty relating to my peers… they were so utterly… uninteresting.  Mummy and Father… well, there was little there to inspire joy.  But you brought that to me.  It was simply a delight to hold you, play with you… listen to you laugh… it was foolish, I know, but I believed that, one day, you would also enjoy _my_ company.  It was a selfish, pathetic, thought, but as a young boy, I believed that as you grew, you would look at _me_ and see someone with whom you would be pleased to spend time.”

Mycroft stopped then and raised his hands in a ‘well, what are you going to do’ posture that put a lump in Sherlock’s throat, a bit of physiological treason the student did not appreciate one bit.

      “I have never lost my delight with you, Sherlock.  It is something as much a part of me as my blood or breath.  My pride in who have become, in what you have accomplished… it is nearly inexpressible.  You remain and always shall remain my precious baby brother… I simply… now and again, I wish that you could view me with even a small amount of regard.  I know the choices of my life make that supremely difficult and I know you would now far rather spend your time with other things than minding me each day… but I still hope that there will come a time when you would sit with me, not out of obligation or lack of better option, and find the time enjoyable.  I would like to have meaning in your life, Sherlock, as you have always had in mine… but I have found great fulfillment in watching you grow into the man you are now and if that is all I shall ever have, it will be enough.”

It was Mycroft’s fractured smile that punched the hole in Sherlock’s chest and the mist in his brother’s eyes that reached into that hole and twisted whatever it found at his core.

      “I… you require more tea.  I will make it.”

Sherlock sped out of the bedroom and Mycroft simply nodded his understanding in Sherlock’s wake.  This was not a conversation his brother could manage… likely not one he could fully comprehend, though his relationship with John was helping him greatly in this area.  But that was alright, he loved his brother and that love was sufficient to warm his heart on the coldest night…

__________

Sherlock flailed around the kitchen, completely unable to steady his mind sufficiently to remember how to boil water, let alone make a cup of tea.  Mycroft was stupid.  And wrong.  Completely wrong.  He could not be wronger.  Which wasn’t a word!  That warranted throwing one of Lestrade’s cups into the sink, just to hear the very satisfying sound of smashing crockery.  Mycroft made it sound as if there was no… connection on his part.  Which wasn’t true.  It was _not_ true.  Admittedly, the connection he had to his brother might be a tad difficult to discern at times.  It _could_ be said he did not precisely demonstrate empirical evidence of his bond with his brother with any degree of frequency.  That did not mean, however, the bond did not exist.  Evidence of radioactivity was not demonstrated until Becquerel’s experiments, but it existed since the dawn of the universe!  Mycroft was wrong _and_ insulting to science!

And if his idiot brother was convinced there was no return of… sibling regard… it was especially stupid to cling to the hope there _would_ be someday.  Surely Mycroft knew him by now… he had never shown evidence of a particularly changeable mind.  He made the correct decision and moved forward knowing his viewpoint was the proper one.  Except… when it wasn’t.  Or when new and unexpected experiences made a former perspective shift.  Regardless, it was still stupid to… _hope_ to that degree.  Wasn’t it?  Yes, of course, it was.  And what did Mycroft believe?  That if he loved enough it would fill the emptiness inside of him?  That he could fix his own loneliness by caring for someone else?  That was foolish.  Who could be so stupid?  Well, apparently, Mycroft could.  It didn’t matter that the care and affection had made his _life_ less lonely in the process… that was completely immaterial.

Sherlock quickly grabbed a few things, mostly to give his hands something to do, then stormed back into the bedroom to set his ridiculous brother straight on a few points.  If no one stepped in to manage Mycroft’s deformed thinking, there was no telling what delusions he might fall into next…

__________

Mycroft looked up quickly when Sherlock burst back into the bedroom and tentatively accepted the teabag floating in a glass of water handed to him by his brother.

      “I have heard that a long, cold brewing produces a flavorful, less astringent product.  Thank you, Sherlock.  I am happy for the opportunity to verify that claim.”

      “Shut up, Mycroft.  I have had quite enough of your defective thinking for one day.”

The artist blinked back his surprise and stared at his brother, who was glaring at him with an intensity Mycroft had never seen.

      “Your idiocy has soured my tongue so profoundly, I could not enjoy a cup of tea at this moment if my life depended upon it.  I will now inform you as to the degree of your error in judgment.  You have made assumptions and that is an affront to the process of rational thinking.  I… I will admit that your interpretations of certain issues _might_ be predictable, owing to your inability to apply logic to a situation… you are an artist, it is only to be expected… however, that does not negate their incorrectness.”

Mycroft continued to stare at his brother, but a great deal of his shock stemmed purely from the fact that he had expected that Sherlock would use his time out of the bedroom push their conversation deep into the forgotten crevices of his mind and never think of it again.  Apparently, that had not happened.  For his part, Sherlock now realized that since he had opened this door, he had continue on through and was not entirely certain how to explain something he honestly had no words to describe.

      “I agree that, as children, our peers were profoundly stupid.  I had only one person in whom I had confidence that a conversation would not end in my drowning in tears of boredom.  It was no accident that my time was spent primarily with you.  I will concede… grudgingly… that I did not clarify my position on the matter and… perhaps… gave you cause to believe that your efforts towards my upbringing went unnoticed or unappreciated.  Often… again, perhaps… they were.  I will not make excuses for myself beyond… it is only recently I have begun to appreciate and, as a child, I surely did not.  That being said, you have always been a part of my awareness, Mycroft.  On some level, I have always known that you were there and that was… reassuring.  There was a constancy to your presence that I never had to question.  No, I did not remark upon it and certainly it won you no praise, but… it _has_ meant something to me.  I cannot adequately describe the impact or articulate any parameters of my… feelings… but they exist.  There.  Take that for what it’s worth.”

Sherlock nearly made the mistake of drinking his ‘tea’ to distract from his discomfort, but realized he wasn’t quite ready to die and set the glass on the floor as he took a seat next to the bed.

      “Sherlock… I do not know what to say.”

      “Then we are well matched.”

      “No… no, you did an exceptional job stating your p… position.”

Sherlock huffed a very dramatic sigh and handed his brother a tissue, failing utterly to comment upon Mycroft’s fresh show of emotion.

      “Then may we let this subject lapse into the obscurity it deserves and find a less tedious way to pass the time?”

Mycroft struggled mightily and swallowed down the desire to let loose a torrent of heart-searing words that would serve only to embarrass his brother.  Besides, Sherlock was not entirely unobservant… words were hardly necessary to express how he was feeling at this moment…

      “Yes, after I offer you a simply thank you for your succinct presentation.”

      “That is sufficient.  Now, you will begin drawing something that will keep you occupied long after the time John arrives for dinner this evening.”

      “Oh, are we entertaining?”

      “ _We_ are not. _I_ am entertaining.  Lestrade is likely to be derelict in his duty to prepare John and my dinner, so you will suffer his penance-by-proxy.  If you are lucky, you will receive a cold boiled egg and handful of the weeds John that insists contain vitamins, when, in truth, they are simply solidified masses of green-tinted herbicide and insect waste.”

      “How delicious.  I feel privileged to be offered such a feast.”

      “Then… when Lestrade returns, I will leave you in his hands and spend the remainder of the night… at John’s flat.”

This admission caused Mycroft to start staring again and Sherlock began to fidget in his chair like a six year-old boy who needed a trip to the loo.

      “And by _remainder_ , do you mean…”

      “I mean it in its full capacity of definition.  And stop staring.”

Mycroft averted his eyes and began whistling, earning one of his used tissues wadded and thrown at his face.

      “You are infantile.  How you can be considered the older brother is something I will never fathom.”

      “I believe birth order plays some small role.”

      “You have lost your boiled egg.  Enjoy your evening meal of toxic shrubbery.”

      “I am certain they will be quite palatable with a nice glass of chilled boar’s sweat.”

      “I will send John to the shops for your request.”

      “And… does John know of your intention to keep extended company with him this evening?”

      “I informed him of it last night, actually.  He is very pleased with the idea, not that it is any of your business.”

Oh, it was very much his business, since it would be him and Gregory who would have to deal with the post-apocalyptic Sherlock and he had not the capacity for making his own trip to the shops for nerve tonic and various forms of safety equipment.

      “Then I wish you a lovely evening and remind you to toss a toothbrush and clean pair of pants into your pocket before you leave.  I know how particular you are about certain things.”

Sherlock gave his brother another glare, but conceded that the point was worth considering.

      “Trust you to focus on the most boring details possible.  If there is a microgram of romance in your soul, it is simply a speck of misnamed bile.”

      “Yes, that is surely the case.  Now, shall you read while I work the piece you have assigned me?”

      “I might as well.  As I am confined to this debtor’s prison all day, I might as well use the time productively.  And… I shall make more tea.”

      “That is most gracious of you.”

      “I will set these aside for Lestrade.  He delights in tightfistedness and will drink them gladly.”

      “But, if you poison him, you will be the only remaining body in the household to tend to my incessant and unreasonable demands.”

      “Ah.  There is that.  I will bring these to the elderly woman who lives two doors down.  She is rather obsessed with her houseplants and will be pleased with the… herbaceous water.”

      “Ah… so that is the source of the biscuit crumbs I have noticed on your jacket.”

      “The nattering crone solicits medical advice from John every time she sees us and it is only right I demand payment for his services.”

      “And does John actually receive any portion of his salary?”

      “He may have whatever he can grasp.”

      “Oh, and where do you bank your bakery-based funds?”

Sherlock picked up the glasses and hoisted them high above his head, smirking as he left the bedroom, uncharacteristically enjoying the sound of Mycroft’s laughter as he walked away.  And Mycroft, once again, marveled at the changes his brother was experiencing.  Now that Sherlock was out of the room, he could let his emotions run free and have them fully liberated by the time his brother returned.  Sherlock would never entirely understand what today meant to him, but that was quite alright.  His Gregory would understand and be content to lie in bed tonight, head here on his chest, and listen to the sound of his heart beginning to repair the slashes and burns he had, for years, feared would never heal…

__________

Paperwork.  Paper + work.  Lestrade was used to paperwork and paper… things, but was realizing he had truly never dived into the depths of paper hell until today.  More paper had made its way through his fingers today than any other day in his life and he’d held the glorious job of paperboy when he was a lad!  But he had learned… well, he’d learned more than he could probably remember, but no one had given him a whack on the head for being a bother asking so many questions.  What joshing he’d gotten had been good-natured and the only person who had given him a bit of an evil look he actually recognized as being a mate of one of the most useless sods in the station, so there was that explained.  Probably was told he molested pigeons or something… but beyond that, it was a _fantastic_ day!  And they took him seriously.  Listened to his questions and his input when there was a conversation on some point about the case.  Not that he gave a _lot_ of input, because he didn’t really know much about anything right now and he didn’t want to appear like an arrogant arse, but he did have a few ideas he felt confident offering and they weren’t tossed immediately into the bin.

So he’d sat on his non-arrogant arse most of the day, drank more caffeine than was good for him, ate a ‘lunch’ he had to pump money into a machine on the ground floor to buy, but it was absolutely, positively amazing.  And tomorrow, he was going to get out with a few of his new colleagues and interview a number of people concerning the mountain of files he’d pored through today.  Get more pieces to the puzzle to make the picture just a bit more complete.  Which was positively, earth-shatteringly brilliant, and he’d share every moment of it with Mycroft as soon as he could get home.  Which, unfortunately, might not be for awhile.  He still had a few miles of his file-mountain to conquer before he could make a break for the door…

__________

Pot.  Yes, it met the relevant criteria.  It held water and fit on the stove.  Pan.  Short, fat pot for… putting things in.  He had previously mastered eggs and sausages and now… he would master the hodgepodge of materials currently in the damnable short, fat pot.  Mycroft had orated unendingly about what could go in the heretofore-termed SFP, how to massage it all together, which magic wand to wave over the SFP or stab into the contents to make smaller contents, the appropriate potions to drizzle across and fairy dust to sprinkle in… it was nightmarish.  However…

… his satanic rituals seemed to be working.  Unlike his normal experiments, he could taste his data and judge the palatability of his results.  He now had an SFP with a surprisingly agreeable sauce burbling happily away, a proper pot showing signs of its own burbling in preparation for the pasta sitting patiently on the counter, bread that fought back when you tapped it and the wine that someone who shall remain nameless because he was insufferable had suggested as low-cost, yet complementary to the meal.  And, no, that was not at all a panicked startle just because there was a knock at the door…

      “Ah, John.  How nice to see you.  Do come in.”

      “Ok, what’s wrong?”

      “Why would anything be wrong?”

      “Why were you talking like Alec Guinness?”

      “I wasn’t.  You are having auditory hallucinations.”

      “Fair enough.  I’ve been on my feet for the past hundred-thousand hours and I’m fairly sure I spent my lunch break talking to my Gran who died in 1975.”

Sherlock made note of the fatigue clearly written across John’s face and kissed him on his forehead, nuzzling a little to smooth out the wrinkles.

      “Then aren’t you lucky that you have no role in preparing dinner and may simply sit and eat it.”

      “Greg’s home?”

Sherlock’s offended snort made John laugh and rub the student’s arm in apology.

      “I bet it’s especially good since you did all the work.”

      “That goes without saying.  Sit.  I will pour wine.”

      “Oh… fancy.  I like that.  Let me take a quick peek at Mycroft first and…”

      “Wrong.”

      “Pardon?”

      “I have already peeked at Mycroft, disgusting a thought as that is, and he is no different a condition as he was when last you saw him.  Further, he has banned you from the bedroom for the evening.”

      “Oh, has he now?”

      “Yes.  Here.  Bear witness.”

Sherlock pushed a piece of paper towards John, who picked it up and rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s florid script, announcing in many, many words that he was, indeed, banned and to return Sherlock home tomorrow in reasonable condition.

      “Your brother’s a nutter.”

      “Oh, are you only realizing that now? Really, what _is_ required to receive a medical license?  Spelling your name mostly correct on the application form?”

      “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

      “I do now.”

Sherlock’s slightly-smug smile made John laugh again and the doctor settled in for a relaxing meal.  Perfect way to end the day and, this once, he’d forget he had a patient and simply enjoy a lazy night with Sherlock.  Which was going to end in a very interesting way.  Just _how_ interesting, though, remained to be seen…

__________

      “Well, isn’t this cozy?”

Lestrade looked at the couple on the sofa, Sherlock’s head in John’s lap as they watched a film, and grinned widely.  He couldn’t help but remember the first time he met the student and the surly mass of entitlement he’d been.

      “John and I need more wine.  Now that you are here, you may finally be of some use to humanity.”

At least that wasn’t surly…

      “Fine, you lazy bastard.  Man works hard all day, comes home and his kids turn on him like a pack of dogs.  That’s not what the Empire is about, lad.  You’re disappointing the Crown.”

But, Sherlock did do a credible version of the royal wave, which Lestrade answered with only a few selected fingers before retrieving the empty wine glasses from John and topping them up.

      “Looks like dinner went well.  Any left for someone who didn’t eat anything today that didn’t have to be opened with the snap of a bag or wrapper?”

      “John left the dishes for you to wash; there may be sufficient detritus remaining on the plates to lick away for a semblance of a meal.”

      “Shut it, Sherlock.  In the refrigerator, Greg.  I’d have left it out, but we didn’t know when you’d be home.”

      “Thanks, John.  How’s Mycroft?”

      “I have no idea.  I’ve been banned by a very elaborate injunction.  Sherlock says all’s well and I haven’t heard any pathetic moaning, so I’m inclined to believe him.”

John and Lestrade shared a series of looks that said John wasn’t worried about his patient and having his wishes honored would do more good for Mycroft than an exam that would, most likely, find nothing amiss.

      “Anyway, you useless copper, how did being a detective go today?  Did they bounce you back to uniform or did you earn another go tomorrow?”

      “Still on the job, thank you very much.  It was brutal, though.  Holding that chair down on the floor all day… bugger gave me a devil of a time, but I showed it who was in charge.  Didn’t move from the ground once.”

      “I can see the flab developing already.”

      “For your information, Sherlock, I’m off the desk tomorrow and out on the streets.  Or, rather, out in the estate agent offices, banks and musty government basements where they keep records that go to die.”

      “And you loved every minute of it, didn’t you?”

      “Yes, John… I did.  Every fucking minute was incredible.  Police work is unbelievably satisfying, but it’s instant gratification.  Get call, catch the criminal, score the win.  Detective work is more like delayed gratification.  There’s a long build-up, you know, but then the payoff is… whacha!

      “Spare me your sexual colloquialisms.”

Lestrade just shook his head and poured out a glass of wine for himself and a non-alcoholic partner for Mycroft.

      “John, you’ve got this right?”

      “On it.  Sherlock will be talking like a trollop in a week’s time, mark my words.”

      “Good man.  I’m going to say hello to Mycroft and see what he’ll eat for dinner.  You two can scamper off whenever you’d like but… thanks.  I know this opportunity didn’t come at the best time and I appreciate the help.  I really do and I know Mycroft feels the same way.”

      “It’s not a problem, Greg.  This is important and I know it makes Mycroft feel better to know you’re not just sitting here all night, losing out on opportunities because of him.”

However, John _would_ be asking Sherlock about the slightly uneasy look that slithered across his face when they had a moment alone.

      “Well, thank you.  It means a lot.”

Lestrade took his wineglasses and bid the sofa-sailors goodnight, knowing he wouldn’t be out of the bedroom for a good long time.  He had so much to share with his lover and, after such a long day, wanted nothing more than to stretch out on the bed, let the artist lie against him and relax for an hour or two.  This was what home life was all about.  And it was his, now.  Every single day, this was his…

      “Do not engage in sex until we leave, Lestrade.  I did not spend ages in the kitchen to vomit my dinner onto John’s legs.”

Every single day…

__________

Not that Sherlock had time to feel any queasiness, because as soon as Lestrade was behind the bedroom door, he dragged John off the sofa and handed him his jacket.

      “And where are we going?”

      “Walking.”

      “Ok… to where?”

      “I have no specific destination; however, you seem to enjoy walking for its own sake, so one is not required.”

      “True.  A good walk on a crisp night is its own reward.  Shall we?”

John led the exodus and in a moment the pair were walking down the road, John completely unsurprised when Sherlock laced their fingers together.

      “It is a nice night… as always, Sherlock, you’ve had a fantastic idea.”

      “It is to be expected.  I _am_ a genius, after all.”

      “And a chef.  That was a brilliant meal.  Couldn’t have asked for better, not even if I’d paid for it.”

John didn’t think he’d ever get used to Sherlock’s tiny pleased smile and was more than fine with that fact.

      “Simply a matter of chemistry.  But… I am happy to class it as a successful experiment.”

      “One I hope you’re happy to repeat.”

      “You will cook dinner tomorrow.”

      “We can negotiate.  Maybe Greg will be home in time to do the deed.  In a week or so, Mycroft might be well enough to take a turn stirring a pan.”

And there was that look again that worried John and made him rethink the decision to let his patient have a night off from medical meddling.

      “Sherlock… is there something you want to tell me?”

      “No.”

      “Is there something… I need to know?”

The subsequent pause made John sag, but Sherlock gripped his hand more tightly and actually gave their arms a large swing back and forth.

      “Nope.”

      “Sherlock… if there was a problem today, I need to know about it.”

      “If I promise you that nothing happened today that would benefit in any manner from your intercession, will that be enough to satisfy you?”

Not really, because Sherlock could be a lying bastard when he wanted to, but… he wouldn’t take a risk with his brother’s health.  And, he supposed, brothers should have a few secrets all to themselves…

      “Yeah, it will.  Anyway, if something does come from it, Greg knows where to get in touch with me.  So, let’s see what trouble we can get into.  There’s that second-hand bookshop that’s open late.  Want to stop in and see what we can find for our lack of funds?”

      “Are you going to purchase another dreadful disgrace of fiction?”

      “Probably.”

      “Oh, very well.  You stay sufficiently distracted by the lurid book jackets that I can enjoy uninterrupted browsing time among the more worthy tomes.”

      “It’s a deal.  We can relax with a bit of reading when we get to my flat.”

      “You will not remain awake long enough to read.”

John laughed and had to admit that Sherlock was probably right about that.

      “I’ll give it my best effort.  Anyway, just because I’m having a bit of a nap, doesn’t mean you can’t read.”

      “That would be difficult since you snore.”

      “Do not.”

      “You absolutely do and rather like a diesel engine that’s swallowed a rock.”

      “Oh… that’s not good.”

      “I will learn to ignore it.”

A statement neither of the two would point out made them stumble a step before continuing on with ridiculous little-boy smiles on their faces.

      “That’s good.  Hate to have you lose sleep and have that genius brain of yours overheat.”

      “The crime against humanity would be incalculable.”

      “And maths was never my best subject.”

      “You are very lucky you’re cute.”

This time John’s laugh drew one out of Sherlock and the doctor suddenly didn’t care about snoring or sleeping or anything else.  What they had in that moment was special on its own and he was going to savor it as long as possible…

__________

Happy item number one – his flatmate was fairly drunk and the type of drunk that meant he’d just sit quietly in front of the telly until he nodded off, so no being a loony and ruining their night.  Happy item number two – they had books if they wanted them and the remainder of John’s alcohol supply if that held appeal.  Within moments, both men had their shoes off, jackets hung and were stretched out side by side, their backs propped against pillows, and experiencing only slight feelings of awkwardness from not exactly knowing what was going to happen next.  Luckily, John had a wealth of experience with awkward dates, so felt oddly in control of the situation.

      “Good food, good walk, great company… doesn’t matter that we ended up in my crap flat, it’s been a terrific night.”

      “I agree.  Though, if you poisoned your flatmate, I predict you would better enjoy your living space.”

      “No, because a prison cell would probably be worse than this.”

      “Poisoning does not necessarily have a lethal outcome.  However, a week or two of loose bowels might promote his change of address if you mention you suspect the water has become contaminated by _Giardia_.”

      “Oh, good plan.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

      “Of course, if Lestrade carries through with his intentions, we will be flat hunting soon and I will have a bedroom of my own.  Though they are completely odious, I believe Mycroft and Lestrade rank as better flat-share partners than the lout on your sofa, so we may use that more frequently as our base of operations.”

Only Sherlock would call a trysting spot a base of operations.  He was positively adorable.

      “That will be nice.  Quiet flatmates, unlimited food and drink… it’ll be like a hotel, really.  Especially with Greg and Mycroft cooking and doing the cleaning.”

      “Don’t forget the laundry.”

      “Yes, definitely can’t forget about that.  I’ll leave a few notes on how I like my clothes folded and not to use too much starch for my good shirts.”

      “If your note is for Lestrade, use small words.  Pictures will also be helpful.”

      “He’s going to box your ears one day, you do know that.”

      “He loves Mycroft, Mycroft loves me… therefore I am safe from any rabblerousing on Lestrade’s part.  Besides he would return to me the note with some form of profane desecration and the scales would again be level.”

Which John had to agree was absolutely true and completely indicative of the group dynamics that glued together their merry band.

      “And Mycroft would probably do the drawings so they’d be anatomically correct.”

      “Despite his lack of humor, Mycroft would render something utterly horrifying and diminish my mental capacity to that of a drooling, rabid stoat.”

As John chuckled at the image, Sherlock took a risk and wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders and pulled him gently so John was nestled against his side, a position John found very cozy and relaxing…

      “You yawned.”

      “Of course I did.  This is warm and comfortable and my belly’s full… smells nice, too.”

      “Really?”

      “Yeah, good, solid genius aroma that you could bottle and sell.  I’m looking very forward to having that be what I’m smelling when I drift off tonight.  Already it’s making all my muscles loosen up.  Well, except one of them, but he’s got a mind of his own.”

It took a moment for John to realize he was the only one chuckling at his admittedly weak joke, and he turned his eyes up to Sherlock’s, which were clouded with an unsettling sheen of worry.

      “Sherlock?”

      “John… is it alright if… I don’t precisely know what are your intentions, however… when I spoke to Mycroft he said, not that I put any stock in what he has to say but… you see…”

      “Sherlock, I plan on doing exactly what you’re comfortable doing.  And that is what I _always_ plan on doing.  If you’re worried that I’m going to push us faster in the physical area than you want, then you can stop.  I’m not.  I’d never do that to you.  Just as I know you’d never do that to me.  Ok?”

Sherlock looked at John for a long time, then nodded and pulled John closer and pressed a kiss to his temple.

      “Are you ready to retire?”

      “Almost.  How about a half-hour of lurid novels before we call the night over and done with?”

      “I will choose as my topic, instead, glass formulations of the 18th century.”

      “I can’t believe you found that.  I’m not surprised it cost next to nothing, though.”

      “Quality and value are often overlooked when the garish and flashy are parading about.”

      “I’ll try not blind you with my book’s Carnival costume.”

      “That would be greatly appreciated.  Shall we get more comfortable?”

      “Sounds good.  I’ve got some respectable reading-in-bed clothes you’re welcome to borrow.  I’m not sure they’ll fit, though.”

      “I shall make do.  And, I did not come entirely unprepared.”

Sherlock released John a moment and got up, to dig in his jacket pocket, extracting a toothbrush and fresh pair of pants, which he presented triumphantly.

      “Oh, bravo… perfect overnight survival gear.  And… we’ll remember to put a change of clothes for you in the closet next time, so you won’t have to go home in the same outfit.  That’s a sure sign you were out all night doing unspeakable things and your neighbors would be absolutely scandalized.”

      “Having met Lestrade’s neighbors, I believe I would, instead, receive their hearty congratulations.”

John’s giggle rang through the room and Sherlock congratulated himself on being such an amusing person.  John liked amusing people.  And when people liked you, they stayed with you.  Which was something he very much wanted.  He rarely wanted anything, but he _did_ want John to stay with him because John was… good.  John made life better.  And it was strangely enjoyable to know that he gave John something back in return.

      “You’re probably right.  They’re a randy bunch, probably why Greg fits in so well there.  Mycroft, too.”

      “We are very fortunate neither is a female or you would soon be required to certify in obstetrics.”

      “I’d lose my hair.  I would bloody well lose all the hair on my head.  Chew my fingernails to nubs, too.”

      “I am thankful, then, for their masculinity, since I do not think you would be nearly as attractive with a few stray wisps of fringe fluttering around your forehead.”

      “I’m going to research hair-restoration procedures, just in case.   Hate to be an old duffer and get tossed out because I’ve lost my manly locks.”

      “Perhaps, by that time, my vision will be impaired and it will not be as noticeable.”

      “Well, let’s keep a good thought then.  You old and blind, me old and bald… we’re going to be the sexiest couple in the park feeding the pigeons.”

      “May we charge a fee for people to admire our virility?”

      “Oh yeah… that would top up our pension quite nicely, too.”

      “You would simply spend it all on tea.”

      “Got a better idea?”

      “I will give it some thought.”

Sherlock smiled and crawled back into bed, holding his breath as John settled back against him, wriggling slightly to fit his smaller frame tidily into Sherlock’s contours. When he was finished, Sherlock handed John his book and took his own, flipping to the first page to begin reading.  He predicted John wouldn’t last the full half-hour before filling the room with his snoring, but that actually pleased him greatly.  John fit very well against his body and he was in no hurry to have their position change.  Tomorrow he would talk to Lestrade about their upcoming flat-hunting mission.  Long, quiet nights in a space all his own that didn’t smell of dirty socks and an even dirtier flatmate was the things dreams were made of.  And he had a great number of dreams involving John Watson… 


	36. Chapter 36

      “Ah, Sherlock… how was your evening with John?”

Sherlock scowled at his brother, but not quite as harshly as he had at Lestrade, who gave him a truly disgraceful leer before he shot out of the flat, fearful of being late for his second day as a detective.  Mycroft, at least, was not leering… his hopeful look was at a slightly-lower level of horrifying.

      “We toured a book shop and, after finding suitable titles, returned to his room for a period of quiet reading before… sleeping.”

      “That sounds most agreeable.  A restful night is a balm for many ills and a very appropriate way to spend an evening.  I take it John was happy, as well, with the outcome?”

Surprisingly, yes.  Sherlock was stunned to find himself falling asleep in John’s bed and waking with his arms and legs being used to trap his bedmate like a fish in a net.  More stunning was that John woke as he tried to disentangle himself and, subsequently, wriggled deeper into the net with a contented sigh, remaining in place as he slowly brought his own brain awake and rolled to give a simple good morning kiss.

      “He was.  And left this morning in a most contented mood.”

      “Oh… for any specific reason?”

      “I was able to prepare breakfast in his atrocious nook of a kitchen.  It was exemplary.”

Toast and jam was certainly one of John’s favorites and he had prepared a plentiful quantity.

      “Excellent!  An experience I would have treasured sharing with Gregory, so I congratulate you on your good fortune.”

Sherlock surveyed his brother, but found nothing in his tone or expression to indicate his brother was anything but truthful.  It was, therefore, not unmerited to give the insufferable artist some crumb of reward…

      And you… were correct.  John made no assumptions about our evening.”

Mycroft’s heart warmed him down to his toes and he could not be more thankful that his brother had found someone as decent and understanding as John Watson.

      “Something I am very gratified to hear.  John values your relationship, in all of its aspects, which is highly important.  Pieces will be added and expanded upon in their natural time, when both of you are ready for them, which is as it should be.  Are you seeing him again tonight?”

      “No.  We had planned to, but I need time for my research and John shall use the opportunity to repay a colleague for a shift of John’s that he covered.”

      “Good.  It would not do to let either of your other responsibilities suffer because of your new status.”

      “I shall collect him for breakfast, instead.”

      “Very commendable of you.  I am certain John will appreciate a good meal after his night of work.”

      “If you call what Lestrade cooks a good meal.”

      “Sherlock, Gregory is not your manservant.”

      “Perhaps not, but he functions agreeably as one, regardless.”

The artist heaved an affectionately frustrated breath and simply shook his head.  Sherlock would ever be Sherlock, but there was so much growth hiding beneath his arrogance and insolence and Mycroft was eternally grateful for every bit of it.  To see his brother tease and jest with such regularity… it was nearly unimaginable.

      “Well, if you choose to mandate he wear a uniform, I shall have a say in both the cut and color.”

      “Kindly keep your sexual fetishes to yourself.”

      “If I must.  Though I do now have an idea of a portrait of Gregory in an exquisite period costume.  A little practice with fine, realistic detail is always welcome and wouldn’t he cut a dashing figure in some manner of Regency finery?”

      “An orangutan in a ball gown is still an orangutan.”

      “Gregory is not at all ginger, Sherlock.  Are your eyes troubling you?  Have John attend to that at his earliest convenience.”

Sherlock’s rude noise was not unexpected, but it made Mycroft laugh anyway.  Sherlock was not at all off-footed after his night with John and that was surely making the angels sing.  At some point, the proverbial elephant in the room would have to trumpet its presence, but with enough time and patience, when the occasion arrived, his brother would feel sufficiently confident to handle it.

      “I assume by your pathetic attempts at humor that your own evening was not as torturous and tedious as you so greatly deserve.”

      “Yes, in this I must, unfortunately, disappoint you, for Gregory and I had a very pleasant evening.  We discussed the events of our day and then he settled in to read the newspaper while I sketched.”

Not that Mycroft would admit to his brother what was the subject of his sketch.  His Gregory had been quite comfortable reading while naked and on his stomach, as his back and backside were rendered in their full and breathtaking glory.

      “You are both already elderly men.  For Christmas, expect reading glasses and a shawl for your gift.”

      “Both I would accept gladly.  And I will ensure your holiday box of nappies is properly sized for you petit bottom.”

      “When we have our new flat, expect to be barred from inflicting yourself upon my territory.”

      “I see.  And I take it you are anxious for this to occur?”

      “John’s flat is atrocious.  It makes this hovel look palatial by comparison.  Lestrade has not retracted his statement that we will relocate to a larger property when you are in better condition, so I expect him to carry through with his promise as soon as possible.  I shall have my own space, which will give John and I a measure of privacy when he visits, and which will also allow me a refuge when you and Lestrade are becoming sickening with your expressions of affection.”

And there was certainly more than a small amount of anticipation in his brother’s voice.  It had been a very long time since Sherlock could say he had a private space to call his own and Mycroft had no illusions as to how important a thing that could be.

      “I shall remind him of that this evening when he returns.  I am hopeful that I am not too far away from returning to work and adding my own earnings to the household accounts, so our budget for a new residence shall be somewhat higher than what Gregory could afford alone.  And I _shall_ make more of an effort to sell my larger pieces, Sherlock.  I know I was remiss, neglectful even, by not being more proactive in marketing my works, but I _will_ do so now.  We have seen an improved quality of life due to Gregory’s generosity, however, I shall not allow him to continue to shoulder the responsibility alone.”

      “Lestrade has said that he would be content if you were to choose to remain home and focus on your art, rather than peddle your trade on the street.”

Mycroft smiled softly and let the warm feeling of love for his partner flow through him.  There simply was no man more caring and devoted than his Gregory, nor any who understood with crystal clarity the importance to him of his work.

      “And, if the day ever comes where my art can fund half of our expenses without the sketches I produce on a daily basis, then I shall gladly oblige him.  What it means to me that Gregory supports my art to such a degree… I do not think I can properly describe to you the significance to me of his mindset.”

And Sherlock, seeing the look in his brother’s eyes, realized, rather painfully, just how greatly this affected his brother.  And how desperately he had been waiting for it.

      “Lestrade being distracted by the bright colors of your fingerpaints does not at all surprise me.  Now, I suppose you require one of your endless cups of tea?”

      “My gullet is truly bottomless.”

And, as Sherlock noticed, their supply of biscuits was being kept well stocked by Lestrade, specifically to help fill that gullet with something other than tea.

      “Very well.  My drudgery continues.”

Mycroft watched his brother leave the bedroom and chuckled softly.  Preparing a breakfast for John, making tea for him… his brother had not been so helpful in… ever.  Yes, if there was a positive thing to take from his experience it certainly was that Sherlock was discovering parts of himself that could easily have remained dormant without an impetus to bloom.  For that, he would happily take his medication so his brother did not have to suffer the effects of his pain-soured mood.  Tomorrow morning, he would speak with John about timelines and expectations for progress.  The idea of getting back to work and helping their family achieve their goals was more important than ever, but… he would do it properly, and with the steps that John advised to bring him to full health as quickly as medically advisable.  Nothing could be allowed to obstruct his path to recovery… not even himself.

__________

Well, this was certainly different than yesterday.  His feet were getting the exercise, instead of his arse, but he was used to being on his feet all day, so he certainly wouldn’t complain.  And, with Mycroft’s help, he’d crafted another appropriate work outfit, though there might have to be a shopping trip in the future, even if it was to a second-hand store, to bolster his closet a bit.  He’d get some ideas from his artist about what to get and do his best, because… this was where he wanted to be.  Coming in this morning was like slipping into a familiar pair of shoes and this was only day two!  The work he’d done yesterday had been valuable and was helping structure what today was going to bring and that was incredibly satisfying.

So far, the detectives he was with asked about twenty thousand questions of those they were interviewing and he’d listened closely to every single one, along with the responses, carefully watching his colleagues’ expressions for evidence of what they were thinking and how well it agreed with his own instincts.  And he didn’t think he was doing a bad job of it, actually.  His partners’ had quizzed him a couple of times, asking what he thought about this and that and what would be his next move and he could tell… they’d been impressed.  Or, if not impressed, at least they weren’t disappointed.  And he’d asked _them_ good questions, too.  When someone gives you a thorough, informative answer it’s because you asked something good and hadn’t wasted their time with something daft, instead.

He’d even gotten to brag a little about Mycroft!  He’d gotten a few raised eyebrows when they’d asked about who he had at home waiting at the end of the day, but it was just surprise and not disapproval.  And they didn’t shy away from asking questions about what it was like to live with an artist.  Tomorrow, he was going to bring in some of Mycroft’s sketches so they could see just how talented his artist was and maybe even have Mycroft do something small he could put in a frame for his desk.  Mycroft would never consent to a photo of himself being on his desk, at least not in his current condition, but one day… one day he’d have a photo of his artist right on his desk smiling at him as he went about his day.

_Oh, Detective Constable, who is that handsome gentleman in the photograph?_

_That’s my lover, the famous artist, Mycroft Holmes._

_Really?  I just saw an article about him in a magazine.  Never dreamed he’d be so striking._

_He is, isn’t he?  I’m a very lucky man._

Yeah, that would be him one day.  A detective with a strong reputation in the service and his renowned artist by his side.  He couldn’t have dreamed of a better future and, now, there it was, laid out in front of him just waiting for all the pieces to come together.  It would take a lot of hard work, but anything worthwhile always did.  And neither he nor Mycroft was afraid of a little hard work…

__________

And hard work was certainly what being a detective was all about.  He’d spent all morning filling his notebook with information and now had to check the facts, look for incongruities and things that didn’t add up… it felt good to be left alone to do this because it meant they had confidence he’d do it right.

      “That someone as supremely ignorant of the requirements of the job as you have been left alone speaks volumes as to why our streets are practically bursting with murderers and rapists.”

No.

      “Sherlock?”

Lestrade peered up from his work and stared into the scowling face of his flatmate.

      “What are you doing here?”

      “I was bored.”

Oh, joy.

      “Sherlock… Mycroft needs…”

      “He evicted me from the flat and said not to return for at least an hour.  Apparently, throwing a ball against your bedroom door was ‘murder-worthy,’ and I am now supposed to work off my, as he terms it, nervous energy.”

      “Then take a walk!  Go to the library!  Go to your lab!  Go anywhere but here!”

      “No, I am already here and tired of walking.  What is this?”

Sherlock plucked a folder off of Lestrade’s desk and held it away from the constable as Lestrade tried to snatch it back.

      “You can’t look at that!”

      “I’m sure there is some law that says I can.  Why don’t you try to find it while I read?”

Perfect.  Sacked after two days… that was probably a record.

      “Sherlock… I could lose my job…”

      “Have you questioned this person yet?”

Sherlock shoved the folder in Lestrade’s face and pointed to a name nestled in a paragraph near the bottom.

      “I… I don’t know.  Not today, at least.”

      “You should.  Do you remember the incident I described to you concerning the window of our former flat?”

That was something he’d never forget.  Mycroft had gotten hurt because of that.  Chosen to get hurt to pay their debts.  For the first time.  No, that was not something that was ever going to be erased from his memory.

      “Yeah, I do.”

      “This was the individual whose car suffered collateral damage.”

      “Oh… ok, that’s good to know.  I’ll pass the information along.”

      “Or we can go and conduct the interrogation ourselves.”

      “Uh… no.  First, you’re not a member of the police and, second, I’m not exactly free to go off running after things on my own.”

      “Is this a ridiculous ‘regulations’ issue?”

      “No, it’s an ‘I’m new on the job and don’t exactly know protocol and procedures’ issue.  All morning, I was out questioning people and most of what I did was watch, listen and take notes.  I’m _learning_ , Sherlock. That’s why I’m here.”

      “Then this is your chance to assess what you’ve learned.”

      “One day doesn’t give me a lot of learning to assess.”

      “Two days.”

      “Alright, _two_ days.  Look, I promise your information will reach the right ears and we will follow up on it.  I’ll even put your name in any report we make based on that information, if that will make you happy.”

      “Credit does not concern me.”

      “Well, I’ll see you get it nonetheless.  Now, why don’t you go and find something fun to do for the remainder of your exile and I’ll get back to work.”

      “Ummm… nope.”

Sherlock grabbed another folder and swatted off Lestrade’s attempts to steal it away.

      “Give me that!”

      “I refuse.  Besides, if I did not review this incompetency, the complete misinterpretation of the facts would have gone unnoticed.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “The conclusions drawn from these inventory sheets and distribution schedules… the idiots focused on timetables and not, as would have been obvious to anyone with a single functioning brain cell, the geographic pattern they demonstrate.”

      “Show me what you mean.”

At this point, Lestrade didn’t really care if this wasn’t procedure, because he’d learned that both Sherlock and Mycroft may have their occasional loony thoughts, but they also had first-rate minds that you did _not_ dismiss out of hand.  Listening to what Sherlock had to say, that philosophy was once again proved valuable.

      “Ok… I see what you mean.  I actually do see what you mean and it’s… yeah, I’m going to have to talk to someone about this.  The other lads are definitely going to want to know.  You just sit here for minute, ok.”

Lestrade got up to go and find his supervisor and Sherlock helped himself to another folder, making his own notes in the notebook Lestrade had left on his desk.  If he could ensure that Lestrade was not late returning home, he could have a full night with his research and still be able to meet John early for breakfast, and that was paramount.  If he had to offer assistance to the police to ensure his time for his own work and John was not imperiled, it was certainly worth his efforts… though he would still demand some physical recompense from Lestrade for his time.  Mycroft’s scarf was not going to be sufficient for the impending cold and another was required.  John had said he would look quite striking with a blue one…

__________

      “Good heavens, Sherlock… I did not mean for you to make your way to Wales and back.”

      “You evicted me and I took full advantage of my emancipation.  Much to Lestrade’s gratitude.”

      “Pardon?”

      “I provided him with a valuable lesson in logic and deduction and completed most of his day’s work for him.”

Mycroft was not certain if he should begin scripting a formal apology to the Chief Superintendant or beam in pride at his _brother’s_ pride in his accomplishment.

      “And I’m certain Gregory offered you his most heartfelt appreciation for your assistance.”

      “He forced me to drink police-grade coffee then banished me from the building.  I am sensing a pattern that speaks of collusion between the two of you.”

      “Did anything, perhaps, prompt this banishment?”

      “…….”

      “Sherlock?”

      “I may have made mention about the undisclosed alcohol problem of one of his colleagues.”

      “Please tell me the individual was not within hearing distance.”

      “My banishment was a preemptory strike in case he _was_ the next time I made an observation.  However, I was placated by the presentation of sufficient funds for a new winter scarf.”

A gentle banishment, then.  Mycroft was, yet again, thankful for his partner’s ability to handle Sherlock’s nature in a productive fashion.

      “Then you are a lucky man, as am I, for I shall have my own scarf returned to me.”

      “As soon as I have found a suitable replacement.”

      “Naturally.  Now, are you free to share the details of your escapades with our valiant police force?”

Sherlock shrugged, then gave Mycroft a summary of his new contributions to the case.

      “My… what a very busy eviction you enjoyed.  I must find reason to do that more often.”

      “Now that I have an even better idea of the incompetency of the individuals supposedly tasked to keep safe our streets, I must agree.”

If another such occasion arose, however, his Gregory must find a way to keep Sherlock away from those who might wish to offer their own opinion on his thinking.  With some degree of force.

      “And John, certainly, will be quite taken aback for your investigatory prowess.”

Sherlock puffed noticeably and Mycroft had a very difficult time controlling his laughter.  His brother was positively adorable when he thought about his romantic partner.

      “He already is.  He was very impressed by my role in rescuing you from that torture chamber.”

The second the words were out, Sherlock regretted them, but Mycroft surprised him by not becoming emotional at his words.

      “As well he should.  You did a marvelous job working with Gregory and I, myself, was very affected hearing the details of your cooperative effort.  It was… it was an image that brought a great amount light into those darkest of days.  Now, if you are amenable, I would take advantage of your helpful mood and beg a journey for a small matter of personal business.”

      “I am going to acquire a bottle for you to keep at your bedside.”

      “If you believe emptying it would give you more joy than a simple walk, then I will agree to your terms.”

      “You truly do have a talent for defiling even the most efficient of ideas.”

      “Oh good, another item for my resume.”

__________

The remainder of the afternoon passed quietly and, by the time Lestrade arrived at the flat, both Sherlock and Mycroft had been laboring for several hours in their chosen tasks of reading and painting.

      “And there’s my little Sherlock getting his schoolwork done.  Just what a man likes to come home and see.”

      “It is only because of my mental ability that you are home at all, instead of languishing at your desk trying to decipher the strange markings on the papyrus strewn across your desk.”

      “I will happily admit you were a lot of help today and gave us some good leads to follow up with tomorrow.  I told you before that you’ve got a talent for this sort of thing and I hope you see I was right.  You’ve got a lot of skills, Sherlock, and I just know they’re going to take you great places.”

Sherlock still had difficulty with being honestly praised, but admitted to himself that it was something he was coming to enjoy…

      “That goes without saying.  And I have absolutely no intention of donning your hideous uniform, if that was your suggestion.”

      “No need for that… plenty of need for good forensics people, especially those that have more skills than just processing evidence.  The best not only know the job, but know how to take what they find and look for more, especially while they’re at the scene so you get everything you can while it’s fresh and uncompromised.  And they do the same thing when they’re at the lab.  Police work like I do probably isn’t for you, I admit, but there are other options.  It’s just something to keep in mind.  Whatever you choose, Mycroft and I are going to be ridiculously proud of you.  Now, how has my artist been today?  Anything to report?”

Sherlock pushed his small surge of pride out of the way to examine in more detail later and focused on Lestrade’s question.

      “Mycroft has been as demanding and intolerable as usual; however, his overall health remains much the same.  He actually took his pain medication without being browbeat into doing so and managed to finish the remainder of last night’s pasta for his lunch.  It was only a few bites, but he did not protest with his normal vehemence when I made it a condition of receiving his desired cup of tea.”

      “That _is_ good news.  Looks like we all had a successful day.  How about I cook something special to celebrate?”

      “I am leaving for my laboratory.”

      “Ok then, Mycroft and I will celebrate alone.  Wait long enough for me to make a sandwich for you to take with you.”

      “I am _not_ a child.”

      “I’ll pack some biscuits, too.”

      “I will wait.”

With his dinner suitably packed, Sherlock quickly left the flat and Lestrade chuckled as he retrieved a beer for himself and poured Mycroft a small glass of real wine as a reward for going easy on Sherlock today and… doing some good things for himself, too.

      “There’s my artist.”

      “Ah Gregory, I thought I heard you arrive.  And bearing gifts, no less.”

Lestrade set aside their drinks, then helped Mycroft move his easel to the floor so he could settle next to his artist and hand over his wine.

      “Do I smell… alcohol?”

      “Only the best for my Mycroft.  It’s just a tiny glass and appropriate, I think, to celebrate Sherlock’s throwing in to help out on the case.”

The other reasons they were celebrating would not be mentioned.  If Mycroft brought anything up, that was fine, but he wasn’t going to say anything to draw attention to his lover’s successes.  Mycroft wouldn’t be comfortable and that was _not_ the way he wanted this night to end.

      “He was very pleased with himself, I can assure you.  Sherlock has always enjoyed great success with his research projects, but this is an entirely new way for him to demonstrate his abilities and I believe he is finding it quite satisfying.  He delights in solving problems, conquering challenges and this is a new type for him to experience.  I am happy, though, that he did not create too much of a fuss at your place of work.”

      “Nah, he was fine.  On the Sherlock scale, at least.  Did a great job and managed not to offend anyone before he left.”

      “I believe the term _he_ used was banished.”

      “Oh… he told you about that?”

Mycroft smiled and ran his fingers across Lestrade’s cheek.

      “Yes, you indulgent man, he did.”

      “I did use the Sherlock scale for grading him, remember?  And he took being banished very well.”

      “And won a nice new scarf for his surrender.”

      “Had to get yours back, didn’t I?  I have very fond memories of that scarf and have many plans for adding more.”

Lestrade turned his most wicked grin at his lover, who nearly trembled in anticipation.

      “And I eagerly await each one.”

      “Do you ever…”

      “Yes?”

      “Do you ever draw… sexy things?”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to smile wickedly and savor Lestrade’s own hopeful smile.

      “It has been quite some time since I have produced an erotic composition, however… with the right inspiration…”

      “Tell me what you need and it’s yours.”

      “My nice wine is a start.  Perhaps, the right mood with some of your candles and… a bit less clothing…”

      “That sounds perfect.”

      “A little touching?  I normally would not touch a model except to correct a pose, however… I believe a tad more might be required for the proper… motivation.”

      “Touching is more than fine.”

      “Then let us enjoy our beverages, ensure you are fed and content, then we may begin.  Does that sound acceptable to you?”

Lestrade stretched out on the bed and took a long sip of his beer.

      “I would say ‘acceptable’ is the least possible word to describe it.”

Mycroft nestled a little closer to his partner and took a sip of his own libation.

      “Then we have, as they say, a plan for the evening.”

      “And a perfect one at that.”

And as John did not expect, Mycroft was forever grateful that his Gregory did not either.  One day he would be able to participate more fully in their lovemaking, but for now, his partner was satisfied with what they _could_ enjoy together and that was comforting in a way he would never try to express because he surely had not the words.  But, with his Gregory… words were never necessary…

__________

      “Sherlock, where have you been?”

      “Why do you ask that?”

John stared at the student and thought only Sherlock could not understand the root of his question.

      “You’re carrying a bag that seems to be… did what’s in there used to be alive?”

      “It was… part of someone who _was_ alive if that is sufficient.”

      “Stop visiting the morgue!”

      “Why?  They don’t mind the company.”

      “Oh god… well, we’ve got to walk now, because I’m not taking that on public transportation.  The public would call the police!  And Greg already wants to arrest us for breaking and entering.”

      “He is still at home, so it is doubtful he would make the trip to take us into custody, simply to have to collect us later when we were released.  But, we may walk if you wish.  We require milk and I know you prefer milk with your tea.”

      “So, a stop for milk.  Anything else?”

      “Ice.”

      “For?”

Sherlock held up his bag and John groaned slightly.

      “And, let me guess, something to put the ice in, as well?”

      “That would be helpful.”

      “Are we even going to make it in time for breakfast?”

      “It rather depends on how quickly you can walk.”

      “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

      “If you are hoping I will disagree, you will be sadly disappointed.”

John laughed at Sherlock’s obvious pride in his joke and began walking quickly towards the exit.  He was lucky, that was absolutely the truth.  How many others could boast about having a Sherlock in their life?  Never boring, considerate… though you might have to point him in the right direction first… and the most gorgeous man in any room.  What was a little medical waste compared to that?  Oh god… was that bag starting to drip?

__________

      “Find some buried treasure?”

Lestrade grinned at the two new arrivals and their chest, which Sherlock was holding as if it was filled with gold.

      “On the human organ market, the cost of a pancreas and liver would be quite substantial, though these would not meet their freshness criteria.”

Lestrade looked in the pan of the lovely breakfast he was preparing and suddenly didn’t feel very hungry.

      “Not in the refrigerator.  You put that in the refrigerator and you’re going to be taking Mycroft’s space by the park as your new flat.”

      “When we _do_ move into our new flat, I demand a refrigerator of my own for the times when I might need storage of important research materials.”

      “If it keeps things away from our food, I’m all for it.  They’re not too expensive, especially the second-hand ones.  Now, go put that somewhere away from me and Mycroft and start eating.  I have to leave soon and I promised your brother to help him with a few things before I left.”

Lestrade waved Sherlock off and John poured himself a cup of the coffee Lestrade had ready, taking a seat at the table when he was done.

      “Sherlock’s excited about the idea of moving to a bigger flat.  I think he’s finally getting comfortable with the fact that this living arrangement isn’t temporary and he’s anxious to stake out his share of the territory.”

      “That makes sense.  So, it’s on you to tell me when Mycroft’s strong enough to relocate… and I don’t just mean that physically.”

Something John understood.  Mycroft felt safe here, had an attachment and that was certainly helping to support his recovery.  Something brand new with which he had no positive emotional connection wasn’t exactly what he needed at the moment.  But… soon.  Soon they’d be able to think about it and then it would be beneficial, because a new flat would mean a new start and it would fall in line with that particular phase of his emotional healing.

      “I will.  I’m going to help Sherlock start looking, though, even if it’s only through the listings so he knows it _is_ going to happen.”

      “What is going to happen?”

Sherlock returned to the kitchen after leaving his parcel in the bathtub and immediately poured his own cup of coffee.

      “Moving.  Greg and I were talking about the plan for that and there’s no reason we can’t start looking at options and areas for some ideas of what to expect when the flat hunting begins in earnest.”

      “Hmmm… that is not the worst possible suggestion.  My demands are rather specific and it may take time to find the appropriate location.”

      “Demands?”

      “I require a spacious bedroom for the equipment I want to bring in.  It must also be provided with sufficient electrical outlets and soundproofing.  The neighbors must be vetted for suitability and the area we choose must offer the appropriate amenities and be within an acceptable distance to my laboratory.  Storage space is also an issue of importance as is the size and condition of the bathroom.  Already I am having to fight through a forest of used bath towels and assortments of grooming products to make myself presentable for the day.”

Lestrade and John both politely held back their laughter and knew that, with their budget, Sherlock would be forever trying to find that particular combination of features so an immediate call to move was not going to happen… but Sherlock would feel hopeful and encouraged in the meantime.

      “Glad you have an idea of what you’re looking for, lad.  I’m certain we’ll find something that will suit all of our needs, but anything you can do ahead of time to narrow down the prospects will be helpful.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to pay a visit to your brother.”

Lestrade plated out the food and set it on the table, stealing a little from each plate for himself before carrying Mycroft’s own tiny plate into the bedroom.  He needed to get his artist set up to paint and Mycroft wanted something other than easy-access clothes to wear today.  The PC could tell that his lover was feeling very bedridden and if something more ‘normal’ gave him a greater feeling of independence, then that was perfectly fine.  And a shower tonight without wrapping him up like a leftover piece of ham would definitely be on the agenda.  A more proper shower would be another little activity that would mean something special to Mycroft.  If _he_ was in this position, he’d be chewing through the walls by now and his artist was being enormously accommodating and patient, by comparison.  But it had to rankle and anything he could do about that would most certainly get done…

Sherlock watched Lestrade disappear into the bedroom and sighed heavily, much to John’s confusion.

      “What was that about?”

      “I am not confident that Lestrade and the monkeys in the detective zoo are making acceptable progress on our case.”

      “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can, Sherlock.”

      “That is precisely my worry.”

      “London hasn’t fallen into an eternal pesthole of chaos with the police doing their job and I don’t expect it will.”

      “They do not _see_ , John.  What is right in front of them, they see _none_ of it.”

      “And yet, criminals are caught and prosecuted all the time.  I promise you, Sherlock, they’re doing everything possible and you know Greg is not going to let any opportunity pass them by or lead go unexplored.”

      “The amount of authority he wields amounts precisely to zero.”

      “About the same that _I_ wield at work, but that doesn’t mean you can’t point things out or raise a fuss when you need to.  Maybe this won’t be resolved as quickly as you’d like, but it _will_ be resolved eventually.  You have to trust in that.”

      “That is not acceptable.”

      “It has to be.  I know Greg was happy you paid him a visit and I was thrilled to hear how much help you were to the investigation, but you have to have faith that they’ll do the job that needs to be done.”

      “But _I_ could do it better.”

John smiled and got up to pour more coffee, though tea at this point was really what his body was craving.  Maybe Sherlock was right… he did have a problem.

      “I have no doubt that you could.  You’re a genius after all, right?”

      “Unquestionably.”

      “But you’re only one person.  You can’t do it all by yourself, now can you?”

      “That is the purpose of delegation.  And the rank and file’s recognition of their mental superior.”

      “I don’t think you have much chance of being put in charge of the police service, Sherlock.”

      “I would not want the position as it is likely nothing but day of tedious meetings and visits to schools or pet shops or something.”

      “Yeah, that’s certainly not you.”

      “No… but I could be installed as the person who actually sees that work is done effectively, efficiently and with proper conduct of the scientific portions of the investigations.”

      “Wouldn’t leave you much time for your own research, now would it?”

      “I would insist upon my own laboratory and sufficient time in the day to focus upon my personal pursuits.”

      “You might have a hard time negotiating that for your employment contract.”

      “You mean _you_ might have a hard time negotiating that for my employment contract.”

      “Oh no… I’m not your… agent!”

      “Why not?  You may handle the tedious details such as salary, amenities and holiday allowances for my new position and I shall see to the important matters such as solving the most interesting crimes the city has to offer.”

      “Are you sure you didn’t eat anything out of that bag?  Are you hallucinating right now?  How many heads do you see on my neck?”

      “You are nearly as insufferable as Mycroft.  Do not expect a Christmas bonus, as your job performance leaves a great deal to be desired.”

      “Do I get to fill out one of those Rate Your Employer forms for the HR department?”

      “I did away with the HR department.  A complete waste of money and a bloating of the bureaucracy.”

      “Already tossing your weight around and you haven’t even been hired yet.”

      “I believe in efficiency, something that does not characterize the current civil service.”

      “Insulting my job again, are you?  Ungrateful bastard.  See if ever let you see any more police reports.”

Lestrade put Mycroft’s plate in the sink and John grinned both from the fact it was empty and from the whack the PC gave to Sherlock’s head.

      “They shall be mine to peruse at will when I move into my new office and assume my position as your superior.”

      “Good luck finding them.  You think all logical and rational and that’s certainly not the way we file anything.  You’ll be old and gray before you find what you’re looking for without my help.”

      “And yet another attempt to improve the workings of government drowned in the quagmire of stupidity and stagnation.”

      “I’ll bring that up to the other detectives at our morning’s three-hour tea break.”

Lestrade grabbed the lunch he’d remembered to pack for himself and bolted out the door, only ten minutes behind the get-there-30-minutes-early schedule he’d set for himself.  Mycroft ate a full plate of breakfast!  A tiny plate that wasn’t enough for a mouse, but he’d eaten it and only looked like he wanted to throw it back up twice.  That was a major improvement and it was putting an extra spring in his step.  The kids paid a visit, he had non-machine lunch for the second day in a row, Mycroft ate and was _very_ happy with his clothes… it was going to be a good day.  Of course, he said that very quietly in his head because he did _not_ want to jinx anything.  A few normal days was all he was asking for.  That wasn’t much was it?  Just a couple of days where he went to work after breakfast with the family, spent the day doing his best at his job, then came back home to relax with his lover and whoever else might be around.  They all deserved that and if there was anyone out there that specialized in granting wishes, they’d have his eternal gratitude if this tiny one could make its way on their list.

__________

      “What are you wearing?”

John and Sherlock looked at Mycroft, both with disapproving frowns on their faces.

      “I believe the correct term is ‘clothing.’”

      “Those are not your normal garments.”

      “No, you are incorrect.  These _are_ my normal garments and Gregory was delighted to help me into them.”

Sherlock looked at the tighter-fitting clothes, with extra buttons and zipper on the trousers and scowled even more thunderously.

      “You shall fumble your way so embarrassingly in front of the toilet that your attempt at rebellion shall earn you nothing but urine-stained trousers and I will not be party to removing them from your idiotic legs.”

      “Can legs be idiotic?  I would think they would need to be provided with some form of thought-processing tissue and I do not believe that is the case.  John, however, would know better than I.”

Sherlock turned his scowl on John as if to compel the doctor to claim that legs were directly attached to the brain and the doctor cleared his throat to buy a few seconds of time.

      “Mycroft, are you comfortable in that?”

      “I shall have to again become used to the feel, but I am not sufficiently uncomfortable to warrant changing into the dreary, baggy outfits in which I have spent so many days.”

      “Ok… have you tried walking around in them?”

      “Not at this time, no.”

      “Ok… how about we give that a try and see how it goes before you get started with your painting?”

      “Is that really necessary?”

      “Just a quick trial run to see what little problems emerge that we can work out now, so you can stay in your clothes and still have a successful day.  How does that sound?”

As long as John was not advocating abandoning his garments, Mycroft had no issue with complying.  Slowly and with surprisingly little help, Mycroft made his way out of the bed and walked cautiously around the room while John hmmm’d and Sherlock glared.

      “Still feeling alright, Mycroft?”

      “I believe so, yes.”

      “Alright then.  Let’s get you settled again and set up with your easel.  Tea?”

      “A cup would be lovely, actually.”

      “Then tea you will have.”

John got the artist resettled in the bed and provided with his easel, canvas and supplies before pulling Sherlock out of the bedroom with him to get Mycroft his tea.

      “I cannot believe you are supporting his ridiculous costume.”

      “That’s his normal clothes, Sherlock, and it’s helpful, mentally, for him to get into them.  And… did you even notice how they don’t really fit him anymore?  He’s lost enough weight that they’re not as form-fitting as they look.  He’ll be fine in them today and the mood boost is something he can surely use.  It’ll be alright; you’re not going to need latex gloves to pry him out of wet trousers, so stop worrying.”

Sherlock still did not look pleased, but relaxed a little and John was willing to take what he could get.  One stubborn Holmes was quite enough to manage; two was not possible until _he’d_ had a few cups of tea.

      “Very well.  But if he experiences any discomfort, I will divest him of those rags and replace them with something more appropriate.  As it is…”

John’s eyebrows rose as he waited for the student to continue and Sherlock actually looked uncomfortable suffering the scrutiny.

      “He will soon begin to feel chilled and will certainly neglect to notify anyone of the fact.”

Ah… now, that was something John had not thought of, but he was also wearing a warm jumper.  When he waved his hand around it became clear that he flat was perfectly acceptable in temperature… unless you were seriously underweight.

      “Ok, we’ll toss a jumper over his head before it becomes a problem.”

However, that did not seem to appease Sherlock as much as the doctor had predicted.

      “Sherlock?”

      “The kettle is ready.”

So, whatever was bothering the student wasn’t up for discussion just yet.  John weighed the value of digging deeper versus the frustration of digging further and decided to trust that when Sherlock was ready to talk, he would talk.

      “That it is.”

With that matter set aside, John finished with his task and delivered a grateful Mycroft a warm beverage, relieved that the artist did not take offense when he casually suggested that a jumper might be a good idea.  A few minutes of conversation about Mycroft’s intended painting gave the doctor time to drink his tea and, with Mycroft now warmed inside and out, this time it was Sherlock who pulled John out of the bedroom, making an off-hand comment to his brother that they would be away for an hour or so.

      “And where are we going?”

      “You will see.”

__________

      “There?”

      “Yes.”

      “It looks so… normal.   Posh, but normal.”

Sherlock swallowed down the rancid, furnace-hot emotions that welled up in him, seeing the house from which they’d rescued Mycroft and grasped John’s hand to help steady himself.

      “Isn’t ‘normal’ the standard disguise for evil?”

      “You have a point.”

      “It was the same for the house from which he was sold.”

      “He’d… he’d used them before, right?”

      “Once, that I know of.  And for the same… mistreatment.  Though, that occasion was not as prolonged or severe.”

John unclasped Sherlock’s hand and ran it up and down his companion’s back.

      “It was my fault then, as well.  I created a need for money and Mycroft allowed himself to be abused to obtain a large and quickly-paid wage.  But he walked away from that.  He _walked_ away.  He would _not_ have walked away from this.  If we had not arrived when we did he would never have walked away.  He would not have been alive to do so and he knew… he knew that could happen…”

John dragged the rapidly breaking down Sherlock behind some hedges and let the student lose the remainder of his composure in choked back tears and a hard shaking of his body that took a long time and great deal of John’s comfort to ease.

      “H… he knew his torture could be fatal and he…”

      “Mycroft wasn’t thinking clearly, Sherlock.  He _believes_ he was and that his reasons were good ones, but we know better, right?  His mind has been ill for a very long time and his choices were never as much of a choice as he believed them to be.  That’s not your fault or his, but we’re going to help him fix that, aren’t we?  We’re going to help him heal all of that damage as best we can.  Now that we know about it we can do what it takes to fix the things that are wrong so he can have a happier life.  We can’t change the past, but we can make the future a better one.  For him _and_ for you.”

      “I don’t matter.”

John wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock and held him until Sherlock lost the iron in his spine and bent to hug John just as firmly.

      “You do matter, Sherlock.  You _do_.  Even though you didn’t know the reason why, your life was upheaved by your father’s cruelty and perversion and you have your own scars from the course your and Mycroft’s life took after that.  Now, you’re having to cope with all that you’ve learned and… all that you feel guilty about concerning your brother.  You do matter, Sherlock and don’t think that you’re not going to get all of the attention and help you need to come to grips with what’s happened so you can recover, as well.  Neither Greg nor I have forgotten you and what you’ve been through and we _will_ be here for you because you matter.  You absolutely _do_ matter and don’t you ever forget that.”

John stayed quiet and simply held Sherlock as he released another surge of whatever was raging inside of him.  After a very long moment, Sherlock drew back, wiped his face and looked so confused and distraught that John dragged him down onto the grass, hoping desperately that the homeowner whose lawn they were using wasn’t home to call the police about the loitering.

      “Here, let’s sit awhile and you tell me exactly how you and Greg found Mycroft.  You told me the basics before, but how about the… urk!”

John found himself jerked out of sight of the road and held back protesting when Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips and motioned for him to look again at the house they’d come to see and the person exiting the front door.

      “That’s him?”

      “It is.”

      “Again… not exactly the face of evil I was expecting.  Especially with the bandaging on his nose.”

      “I assume he opted to have cosmetic work done to repair the damage rather than sport an obviously broken nose.”

      “Who is he?”

      “I actually don’t know.  I have yet to have the opportunity to steal any of his mail or search public records for the ownership information for the property.  The phone number was unlisted and I… I do not know if Lestrade has found the name to which it belongs.  He has not said so, at least.”

      “He might not.  I suspect that if Greg had a plan to make that bastard pay for what he did, he’d make sure nobody could possibly get caught and punished for it but him.”

      “That is unacceptable.”

      “Maybe not, but it’s what I’d do if someone did that to you.”

Sherlock cut his eyes away from their nemesis and stared at John.

      “You would?”

      “No question.  I’d find whoever was responsible and teach him the error of his ways.  Not that he’d likely have much time to think about his lessons, what with bleeding to death and all, but I’ve always been in favor of education.”

      “Oh.”

John smiled happily at Sherlock’s shy, pleased grin and the clearing of the storm clouds in the student’s eyes.  John knew Sherlock was not expecting an emotional break seeing the house again, but he, for one was glad it happened.  Sherlock did need his own chance to heal and he was dedicated to being there for every bit of it.

As the car carrying the enemy drove off down the street, Sherlock’s smile broadened and he jumped up from the ground and raced across the street with John hot on his heels.

      “Sherlock, we are _not_ breaking in!”

      “I have no intention of setting foot in that accursed structure again.  Fortunately, the bins will be outdoors.”

Sherlock scurried around to the rear of the house and began pulling lids off of the rubbish bins, rooting through until he triumphantly held up several pieces of discarded mail.

      “I have his identity.  We must investigate him further.”

      “Would you care to tell me why we would do that?”

      “Lestrade may have his own plan for revenge; however, as he is otherwise occupied at the moment, it would not be amiss to gather information to facilitate his agenda when it might finally come to pass.”

      “Are you saying that we’re going to root for information about this bloke and hope we find something Greg can use to make the bastard pay?”

      “Whereas he might prefer to use his fists… not a disagreeable plan, if I am to be honest… the effect would be short term.  I wish to ensure this animal’s suffering be both agonizing _and_ lasting.”

John found he had no moral or ethical objection to that idea, medical degree be damned.

      “Ok… where do we start?”

Sherlock was not certain how a tiny word such as ‘we’ could be so powerful, but he had absolutely no desire to question it.

      “We need to learn more about this individual and that will require research.  I will escort you to the library.  There are computers there for public use and various databases that may be searched.  That is where you will begin.  Ask the librarians if you require assistance, though they are as ignorant of technology as they are the contents of their own shelves.  After that… you may examine his medical records, correct?”

      “If I had a reason to, yes.  Without one, no.”

      “I believe I noticed infection from his recent rhinoplasty.”

      “Oh, you did?”

      “As a concerned physician, you might examine his records to learn if he is allergic to certain antibiotics.”

      “I’ll… see what I can do.  What are you going to be doing while I’m losing sleep and threatening my employment?”

      “Conducting my own inquiries.”

      “Which would be?”

      “Convincing Lestrade to make use of his resources to bolster our portfolio of information.”

      “Sherlock… leave Greg alone.  He’s at work!”

      “He may obtain my information while he takes his lunch break.  That will not interfere with the performance of his duties, will it?”

      “You throwing a tantrum to get him to do what you want certainly will!”

      “I do not throw tantrums… I simply articulate at volume the salient points of my argument.”

      “Sherlock, please…”

      “If I promise to simply ask him and then visit a few acquaintances among the so-called free press, will that satisfy you?”

      “A real, no codicils that you’re thinking and not actually saying, promise?”

      “…. I suppose.”

      “Then yes, that will satisfy me.  Don’t forget about your brother, though, ok?  You want to… have breakfast again tomorrow to share information?”

      “I would prefer to do so sooner, but some of my lines of investigation may not be fruitful until later in the day.”

      “Then let’s go.  We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and started in the direction of the tube stop, wondering why, as a doctor, these little adventures and investigations were so… fun.  Oh well, nobody said that just because he wasn’t a boy anymore, he couldn’t have a little fun in his life…

__________

Sherlock caught a few curious eyes looking his way as he stormed, for the second time in as many days, into the police station and sought out Lestrade, who he found coming around a corner with his nose in a folder.

      “That you pay no attention to your surroundings speaks volumes about your lack of a future with the detective’s section.”

      “Ha ha.  What are you doing here anyway?”

      “Are you going to your desk?”

Lestrade let out a sigh and closed his folder.

      “Is that your way of telling me I probably want to be sitting down for this?”

      “Not… necessarily.”

      “Brilliant.  Bloody brilliant.  Come on…”

The PC led Sherlock to his temporary desk and pulled a chair over so Sherlock could sit, as well.

      “Alright, what is it?”

Sherlock slid over one of the pilfered pieces of mail and scooted his chair back a little from the suddenly enraged Lestrade, though the PC made very sure he sat on his hands until the urge to punch a hole in his desk abated.

      “Ok… you found out his name.”

      “Something you apparently already knew.”

      “Of course I knew!  What do you think the first thing I did was when I got back to work after we got Mycroft out of that hell?”

      “And you did not tell me.”

      “No, I didn’t.  The last thing I needed was you to go off and do something foolish when I already had more than enough to worry about.  Besides…”

      “John was right, you _do_ have your own revenge plan.”

Lestrade let out a long, slow breath and let some of his tension bleed away before he gave Sherlock an answer.

      “Not really, but… that bastard is never far from my mind.  When Mycroft’s suffering an especially bad moment, don’t think part of my brain isn’t doing violent and bloody things to that disgrace to humanity.  If you want the truth, I haven’t been confident that if I met up with that fucker I wouldn’t kill him on sight and… maybe that’s the fate he deserves, but I don’t think I could wear my uniform anymore if I did that.  Give him a beating he’d never forget, yes, but… I’m still too… I can’t trust myself to stop there.  Once Mycroft’s better and I’ve lost more of the worry that I’ll never see him out in the sunshine, smiling and charming his customers, maybe then I can do something.  Right now, I can’t.  I just can’t.”

      “Then John and I will take the lead until you can control your primal urges.”

      “Wrong.”

      “Right.  John is currently at the library researching the villain and will also obtain his medical records for study.  You will now provide me with whatever information the police might hold to add to the case file.”

Lestrade wasn’t sure if he should laugh, cry, yell or just walk away quietly.

      “Sherlock… I appreciate more than you can imagine your wanting to avenge your brother, but we’ve had this discussion before about investigating people with you not being part of the police.”

      “That discussion was centered around an official police inquiry.  This situation does not meet that criterion.  It is a non-police matter and the most I can be accused of is snooping.”

      “Harassment, invasion of privacy…”

Sherlock waved off the official charges list with an imperious flick of the wrist and, this time, Lestrade did laugh at his performance.  And, after a moment’s hesitation, threw up his hands in an ‘I surrender’ pose.

      “Fine.  But you have to promise me…”

      “Ugh… you and John have an unhealthy fixation of promises.”

      “It’s a character failing.  Now, promise me that whatever you find on your own, you will tell me about and not run off to try and… do something with it… on your own.  Can you do that?”

      “Is that the only way you will give me the information I require?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then I have no choice.  I promise to be completely useless and sit on my vital information like a chicken on an egg.”

      “Alright, then.  I’ll get the folder out of my locker and…”

      “You already have what I require?”

      “Yes… I haven’t let this sit, you know?  I was not going to have it anywhere near the flat though, in case Mycroft found it.  I don’t want him to run across anything about that piece of filth and that goes for whatever you find, too.  Hide it, swallow it, whatever it takes, but do not let him find it.  It will _not_ be good for him right now.”

Something  Sherlock had no intention of arguing against.  His brother did not respond well to memories of that event and there was no kindness in causing him pain, even if came in the form of words on paper.

      “I will not.  Go and get the folder.”

      “I’ll bring it home with me.”

      “But, I’m here now.”

      “And you’ll be at home later.”

      “You are not going to be returning to the flat for hours and those hours could be put to good use if I leave now with the folder in my possession.

      “Doubtful, because there’s really not much in there.”

      “That is for me to decide.”

Realizing that it would be far less painful to get the folder than debate the issue with Sherlock, Lestrade shook his head slowly, stood up and motioned Sherlock to follow him.  At least the boy would get his information and be on his way, hopefully, back to the flat to keep an eye on Mycroft.  But, the PC couldn’t deny the feeling of pride that Sherlock and John were invested in the idea of taking that arse by the neck and applying the squeeze.  Maybe they could come up with something that didn’t end in burying the body in a shallow grave or throwing the dismembered parts in the Thames.  That was all he’d come up with so far, but then… he might be a little single-minded when it came to his artist…


	37. Chapter 37

John knew he wasn’t the most exciting man in the world, hadn’t lived the most exciting life, but right now he felt like his existence was a whirlwind of activity.  He had a new relationship that was going… very well, thank you very much.  Since Sherlock had stayed at his flat a week ago, they’d shared breakfast or dinner most days and spent time together either engaged in activities that were entertaining, as was expected for a fledgling couple, or working on their cases, which Sherlock refused to let Greg and the police handle alone.  And, not to be boastful, they’d made some respectable progress.  Put together a decent profile of Mycroft’s abuser, though he wasn’t sure what good it was going to do.  Sherlock seemed happy, though.  Very happy, in fact, though he waved off any questions about why and, by now, John had come to understand that patience was a virtue when dealing with his… Sherlock.

And they’d, in a thoroughly roundabout way, pursued a few leads for the other case on their docket, as well.  Greg had made a very informative visit to Mrs. Hudson and come away with more information than even they’d gathered because Mrs. Hudson had taken pains to scour the flat and charmed the manager of her bank into letting her into the safe deposit box for which she ‘lost’ her key.  Some of that information Sherlock had taken and acted on, confident that by the time the police even noticed its importance he would have the entire business wrapped up with a pretty bow on top.  And, though Sherlock did a fair amount of investigating on his own, for a good deal of it they’d gone as a team and that felt… well, it felt amazingly good, actually.  The best was when something he said sparked his partner like a match being struck and Sherlock barreled down a new trajectory of thought, which inevitably led them somewhere very interesting.

In truth, it was hard, sometimes, to remember that he actually had a real job, one that paid his rent and put groceries in the cupboards.  Luckily… well, that might be debatable… but he had remembered today about his grocery-buying doctoring and that was why he was sitting outside the door of a nicely-maintained office waiting for Mycroft to finish his first appointment with his new counselor.  The battles that had raged the past day or so to bring him to this point had been bloody, and that was very nearly not meant figuratively, though for reasons he couldn’t exactly get angry over.

First, it had been the battle over location.  Everyone, save Mycroft, thought having his first few appointments at home were the best idea.  The artist still couldn’t get around easily and his trials in a standard chair did not produce encouraging results.  John had made arrangements for the first several visits to be in-home, but Mycroft was having none of it.  He absolutely refused to receive anyone, besides Mrs. Hudson, in their home as a ‘bedridden invalid’ and the argument that raged between the artist and Lestrade had, ultimately sent him and Sherlock out of the bedroom and then back in again later when the fight showed no signs of waning without some form of intervention.  The PC was terrified of Mycroft overexerting himself as he had with the courthouse trip, Mycroft was terrified of falling further and further into dependence, and it was only through a lot of calming reassurances, medical and otherwise on both sides, that it was agreed Mycroft would travel to his therapist’s office for this appointment.

Which started the second of the great wars.  Lestrade demanded to accompany his lover, Sherlock demanded to accompany his brother, Mycroft demanded to go alone and John was left wanting a very nice cup of tea to soothe he headache from so many strident voices ringing the walls of the flat.  Another careful negotiation of the various emotional minefields produced a compromise that _he_ would go with Mycroft and, before the trip, buy a mobile phone so that he could call the police station or for an ambulance at any time should something go wrong.  So, now, he had a new toy in his pocket, which already boasted a long list of calls, since both Lestrade and Sherlock saw fit to check in with him every five minutes for a report.  Or for Sherlock to pick his brain about a case.  Or demand they stop for take-away on the way home.  And complain when his request was denied.

The good side of the phone-based insanity was that it was doing an admirable job of keeping his mind occupied and off of the miserable time Mycroft had endured getting here this morning.  It was still difficult for him to handle the stairs and the cab, which were really the minor traumas of the whole experience, so far.  More worrying was his patient’s clear and unsettling anxiety about the visit and there were several times he nearly called a halt to the whole thing and pushed this part of Mycroft’s recovery back another few weeks.  His patient was nervous, frightened, ashamed he was, as he termed it, a bother… but had eventually made the trip successfully and, very fortunately, was seen immediately so there was none of the normal waiting-room worry to add to the mix.  Now, all that had to be done was wait here for the appointment to end and get Mycroft safely back home.  Depending on what shape the artist was in when he exited the office, that might be a lot easier said than done…

__________

The first thing he saw when he entered the counselor’s office was that the chair set aside for patients sported an additional, soft cushion and Mycroft felt another deep stab of shame slice through his intestines.  He’d known, intellectually, that his therapist would have been given pertinent information by John, but it stung nonetheless.

      “Hello, Mr. Holmes.  It’s good to finally meet you.  I’m Miles Harper.  Feel free to call me Miles if you wish, or Dr. Harper if you prefer.  For my sins, I do have the appropriate degree and some people feel more comfortable with a more formal manner of address.

Mycroft closely scrutinized the man who had risen and extended his hand, but found nothing that he could use to immediately call a halt to this meeting.  Tall, in his mid to late 30’s, open of expression and calm of demeanor, with a touch of confident humor that was not entirely to his discredit.  Extending his own hand in greeting, the artist made short work of the handshake and took a deep breath before he took the provided chair and faced the man who had settled back to begin the conversation.

      “Now, I’m certain you would prefer to get started, so I’ll ask… why do you think you’re here?”

If there was a question in the universe more inane, Mycroft had never heard it.

      “I would believe that to be self-evident.”

      “No, not at all.  I didn’t ask you why _I_ thought you were here, which I could answer, but why _you_ thought you were here, which is something I can’t, but do very much want to know.”

Mycroft very much hoped that word-play was not going to be the main feature of his therapy or he would likely strangle himself with the man’s necktie before they had seen the clock strike the next half-hour.

      “As you wish.  This is supposed to be a tool to facilitate my recovery and overall health.”

      “Supposed to be?”

Damnation!

      “Must we quibble semantics?”

      “That’s a full half my job, I’ll have you know.”

Oh, goody.

      “Your days must simply fly by.”

      “Sometimes they do.  Now back to the semantics.  I take it you are not entirely confident about this process and its usefulness to you.”

      “I have no evidence one way or the other, but I did agree to try.”

      “With whom did you make that agreement?”

      “With John… Doctor Watson.”

      “Only him?”

      “My brother and my… Gregory… were also keen to see me navigate this particular course.”

      “But you don’t think it’s necessary.”

      “I will admit that there are issues which might benefit from an analysis by a trained and dispassionate third-party, however, I do not necessarily consider them sufficiently important to warrant all of this… fuss.”

      “Your taxes pay for this fuss, Mr. Holmes, so why not enjoy it?”

Oh, let us count the ways…

      “Gregory nearly had to be restrained to prevent him taking time from his work to be here today, Sherlock has not allowed a handful of minutes to go by without phoning John on the mobile that the good doctor was pressured by both my brother and Gregory into purchasing precisely for this brief outing, John is using his precious free time to be here this morning… my miniscule quantity of tax funds pales in comparison to that level of upheaval.”

      “None of which sounds actually like a fuss, but, rather, the freely-chosen desire by people who care about you to make today as successful for you as possible.”

Being reasonable was not going to erase the sour flavor of semantics, Doctor Harper.  Not a tiny bit.

      “Yes, of course, and I greatly appreciate their concern.  However, I… I simply wish they spared their energy for other matters.  All are busy men with a great deal of responsibility to their own work and goals; my needs should not take such priority in their lives when those needs are completely of my own making and are mine to manage.”

      “I see.  And how would you manage them?”

      “Pardon?”

      “What steps would you take to manage your needs, if the others took a step out of the immediate picture?”

How in the world could he possibly answer that, since the situation was entirely hypothetical and fraught with unexpected happenings?  Did the man have no idea of the meaning of stochastic factors?

      “I… I would give them serious reflection then implement the measures that best fit the particular issue at the time.”

      “You do realize you didn’t really answer my question?”

Yes, and you are exceedingly rude for pointing that out.

      “If I had known I was sitting an exam today, I would have prepared more thoroughly.”

Mycroft watched as his counselor smiled at him and tapped the tip of his pen to his chin.

      “I highly doubt you have _any_ need to prepare for anything with which you are familiar, so I have to assume you truly have no idea how to go about healing the damage you’re sporting and that scares you nearly as much as what we might actually do here together.  If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that you want very much to heal, but would rather handle it privately.  Unfortunately, you also know you don’t have the expertise to do so and cannot bear the thought of remaining in your current state because you also desperately want to feel the happiness you’ve seen in others, for your own sake and for the sake of those in your life.  So, I’m going to ask you again, why do _you_ think you are here today, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft knew it was unacceptable for a man his age to pout, but he did feel a bit like a child whose misbehavior had been discovered, so he did not feel overly upset at his slightly-protruded lip.  Besides, the dastardly man’s strike had hit uncomfortably close to the mark.  And he did promise himself he would try to make this process work..

      “Very well.  I am here to mortar the fractures.  I know they exist, though, I _despise_ their existence.  I had them papered over, excellently, I might add, so they were never visible, but now… now I cannot hide them.  From others or myself.  I have seen a picture of late, one of the most indescribable beauty and I want it more than I have ever wanted anything.  But I cannot have it.  Not yet.  Not fully.  And I must have it.  I simply must and if this is what it takes for me to gain the life, the _dream_ , that I crave, then so be it.”

The artist took a long, deep breath and pushed down the ache that was threatening to well up in, given his recent lack of emotional control, a very visible way.

      “Why not?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Why can’t you have that dream?”

Oh, so the true witchery was now to begin.  Well, if the man wanted an admission, let him have one that was truly succulent on which to feast.

      “Because I am not a whole man.  A good one or a worthy one.  I do not know if _can_ be one, actually.  Perhaps I shall never be, it is wholly possible that I shall fail as I have done all my life, but I _must_ try.  I have caused too much harm not to and… how can I offer myself to Gregory when that offering is flawed and broken?  What he has given me cannot be met with a gift of rot and decay in return.”

      “Alright.”

Pardon?

      “P… pardon?”

      “I said alright.”

      “Are… aren’t you supposed to tell me that I am incorrect or be comforting or something along those lines?”

      “If I said you were incorrect, you would tell me that I didn’t know you and didn’t have enough information to make that assessment.  And you don’t need comforting because, despite the fact you’re trying to hold back a visible display of emotion, you’re not _really_ that upset.  Resigned and tired of feeling the way you do, but you’re used to it and not unduly distressed at the moment.  In pain, yes, but nothing you’re not familiar with by now.”

Stated in that manner, Mycroft had to admit that the evaluation wasn’t entirely incorrect.  The pain was harsh, bitter and brutal, but nothing worse than what he suffered every day when a hundred stray thoughts sliced at his mind.

      “Oh.  Well… in truth, I cannot actually refute any part of that.”

      “Which is my job.  Sometimes.  And, also in truth, it isn’t my place to tell you what to feel right now.  My job is to help you understand why you feel and think the way you do and work with you to put those thoughts and feelings in a more realistic light.  Then we can move onto trying to shift your perceptions to a healthier direction.  I’m not here to invalidate what you feel or believe, Mr. Holmes, but I _am_ here to listen and assist you with lessening their influence over your actions and decisions.  What do you think about that?”

Relieved, actually.  If he was to be honest, he’d feared some degree of chastisement.  Mockery or condescension.  This sounded to be a more, for lack of a better term, therapeutic approach than he’d been expecting.

      “It seems more practical and goal-oriented than I expected.”

      “Good.  Because it is.  And we _will_ set goals as we move forward.  That’s provided you want to continue with me.”

      “Why would I not?”

      “Maybe you will; I hope you do, actually, but it’s for you to decide if you think I can provide you with effective counseling.  You’re not condemned to sit here week after week if you are uncomfortable or unable to feel safe expressing yourself honestly.  If you think I’m not reaching you in a productive way or if you believe I am not working for your best interests, you can simply choose a different practitioner.  That is actually very important, Mr. Holmes.  John matched you with me based on his instincts, but his instincts aren’t yours.  If you don’t think we’re well-matched for your treatment, then I am counting on you to seek a different person with whom to talk.”

Now, that was unexpected.  The last thing Mycroft thought he’d hear was that he had any ability to change therapists if he wasn’t happy with the results.  Part of the heavy, hot knot in his chest was beginning to unravel and he felt his breath coming a little easier than before.

      “I see.  Well, I shall certainly keep that in mind.”

      “Good.  And expect Doctor Watson to ask you about how you’re feeling about the process.  He won’t ask about what we’re doing or any details about the conversations, but he _will_ ask how it’s going and you should be honest with him.  If things don’t go well, just tell him and he’ll find someone else.  And while we’re sort of on the subject, don’t feel you have to share anything we discuss with anyone in your life.  This treatment is for you and you alone.  If you want to take what we talk about in here home with you and talk about it more with your family, then you do it.  If you don’t want that, then don’t.  Sometimes family can be very curious about what’s being shared and become a little… nosy.  It’s alright to say you’re not comfortable talking about it.  Don’t feel guilty that you’re holding that part of your day back from them.”

And something else that brought relief.  He already knew now that not everything that was pulled from the depths would be something he wanted to discuss with his lover or brother.  Someday, perhaps, but there was so much right now in all of their lives that a thick layer of misery added to their family would simply be a cruelty.  And… he did not think he could suffer that at present.

      “Gregory will not pry.  He will ask, but he will not pry.”

      “You mention him a lot.  Would you tell me more about your relationship?”

That, at least, was a topic Mycroft had no difficult discussing.

      “Gregory is the man I love.  He learned early on a sample of my sins and his devotion and regard has never wavered, even with the bounty of extra stains he has seen upon my soul.  In the home we now share, he provides me with affection and attention such I could never have dreamed and begrudges none of the effort or funds he has expended for my benefit.  Gregory is the most kind, vibrant, caring, clever man I have ever known and I feel blessed beyond measure to have found him.  To Gregory… I have value and what I do, my art, he considers vitally important.  It has been his goal to ensure I am able to continue with my work no matter the situation and, every day of my recovery, I have been able to draw or paint.  He even remains with me, without a word being shared, as I create a new piece and he is content to simply share the time and support me in my process.  I never believed that such a man would be willing to forge a life with me, but he chooses to do so freely.  Eagerly even.  I… I do not know what else you want me to say?”

      “That’s quite a lot, actually.  And I will admit that I am very happy you have such a supportive… what would be your term for him?”

      “We have not had that particular conversation.  It is not as if I have had much opportunity to discuss him with others.”

      “What does he call you?”

      “I believe he uses the term ‘partner’ when I am discussed.”

      “Are you alright with that?”

      “I have no objection to it.  It is properly descriptive and has an understood romantic component, as well.”

      “Then that’s what I’ll call him.  As I was saying, I’m happy you have a supportive and devoted partner at home because that will be important for your overall recovery.  How long were you living together before your incident?”

      “We were not.  There had been… tentative advances to broach that conversation, however… in truth, Gregory and I were somewhat new to each other when this situation arose.  He orchestrated my move into his flat so that I might better receive the level of care I required.”

      “Orchestrated your move… that makes it sound as if you weren’t involved in the decision.”

Yes, there was that…

      “Because, in truth, I was not, though I trust that if I protested with sufficient vigor, the action would not have occurred.”

      “Can you explain that?”

      “My and Sherlock’s former flat was… problematic.  It lacked what one might consider basic amenities and it was unsuitable to house an individual recovering from a rather substantial level of injury.  When Gregory saw the degree of my medical issues, he instigated a discussion with John and Sherlock about relocating my brother and me to his residence.  Both agreed it was an appropriate choice, but I was informed after-the-fact.”

      “That doesn’t make it a shared decision.”

      “I know and do not believe for a moment that Gregory or the others took lightly their actions.  There was simply no other choice in the matter and my assent or dissent was irrelevant.”

      “Your opinion about your own welfare is never irrelevant.”

      “Yes… perhaps that was the wrong word.  I meant that from a medical point of view, and John was adamant about this, I would not have recovered well in my former situation.”

      “How did you react when your partner told you?”

      “Not well, at first.  It seemed… presumptuous.  Domineering.  Controlling, even.”

      “And after the ‘at first?’ “

      “I saw the logic of the decision.  It was difficult to accept at the onset, but when I heard the argument in full, I found I could not disagree with it.”

      “Does that happen a lot to you?”

      “Does what happen a lot?”

      “Decisions made without your input?”

      “No.  Categorically and emphatically no.  That particular occurrence was an extreme aberration and, as I stated, Gregory was not happy with the course of the situation and apologized profusely for putting into motion something for which he had not solicited my opinion.  In our daily lives, Gregory treats me with utter respect and as… well, as his partner in all things.”

      “And what would you have said to the move if you had been asked and given the final decision at the beginning?”

      “I… I would have weighed all of the…”

      “An _actual_ answer, please.”

      “Blackguard.  Very well… I do not know what I would have said.  If I were to give my most honest guess… I would have refused.”

      “You don’t want to live with your partner?”

      “I want desperately to share a home with him and have desired to do so… since nearly first we met.”

      “Then why the refusal?”

      “Because… oh, there are several reasons, I suppose.  I am simply used to handling my personal matters myself.  I am comfortable managing my issues on my own terms and in my own way and… away from the eyes of others.  The thought of involving another so intimately in my well-being was daunting, even when that person was someone I greatly loved.  And, I did not want Gregory to have to be burdened with such a thing!  To be required to restructure his own life to accommodate me and my needs was a repellant thought to my mind.  He did not deserve to suffer that, especially since I chose my fate.  The burden was mine and it should have been mine to carry as best I could.”

      “I see…  and is that all?”

      “It is enough, is it not?”

      “Not if there’s more, no.  Self-sufficiency and pride _can_ be enough to make a person want to refuse help, but they are not always the only reasons.”

Of course there were other reasons and the evil man’s attempt at a neutral expression was failing completely to hide his knowledge of that fact.

      “I believe what I have offered is sufficient and, besides, the situation is only theoretical.”

      “If you have another reason, I _would_ like to hear it.  The more information I have, the more effective I can be for you and that’s something that benefits us both.”

“I would say you are not being terribly effective at the moment, since I have _already_ given another answer to that question.  One that I would rather not repeat, if you do not mind, for, as you said, I am tired, achingly tired, of such devils lingering always in my thoughts and taking tooth and talon to what remains of my soul.”

So very tired of feeling unworthy for his lover to even look upon.  However, he had not lied to Mrs. Hudson… it _was_ getting easier.  Every day his Gregory reaffirmed that the feeling was not one he shared, not a view he endorsed and explained why.  Gave example and provided demonstrations so there was evidence to examine and that was slowly turning the tide.  His lover not only gave genuine praise, but presented him with facts to assess and that was… it was helping immeasurably.

      “Ah… alright, point taken.  I generally prefer for people to make as concrete a link as possible between ideas, but I acknowledge you recognize that specific devil and I promise you that we will work on filing down his teeth and talons as much as possible.  Answer me this, though.  Do you have any regrets about moving in?”

      “None… no, that is not entirely true.  I regret that I cannot contribute to the household duties and accounts as I would like.  Gregory’s wages fund both my and Sherlock’s needs and he denies us nothing, not my art supplies, not Sherlock’s entertainments with John, never a stitch of clothing or bite of food.  And I can manage none of the cleaning or cooking or laundry… I regret that I am not a more functional member of the household, but I do not regret that my love and I enjoy the life we are sharing and that each day he comes home to me and we can celebrate that life as fully as I am able.  I am where I would most want to be, all things being equal.”

      “Good.  It’s good that you’re comfortable and the situation is a happy one for you.  And your brother lives with you, too, is that what you said?”

      “Yes.  Sherlock has lived with me… oh, since we lost our parents when we were young.  We came to London for him to pursue his degree and he has distinguished himself not only as a scholar, but a researcher.  I am terrifically proud of him.”

      “How does he feel about this living arrangement?”

      “He does not object to it, in fact, he has seen the benefits of it and how his life is made easier from both the extra amenities and the additional support and guidance that Gregory provides.  However… he was uneasy, at first, as he was unsure as to his place or role in the dymanic, but that unease has waned as he has accepted that his presence is both desired and valued.  He does complain of the rather tight quarters, but when I am more ambulatory, we shall seek a larger flat, one with an additional bedroom for Sherlock’s use.  He was not quite so insistent upon one at the beginning, but his relationship with John has changed that.”

      “I imagine it did.  I don’t know Doctor Watson very well, but any couple would want their own private space, even if their flatmates are easy to live with.  And how is your brother for helping you with your recovery?  Is he someone you can count on for assistance if you need it?”

      “Yes.  Sherlock has been very attentive to my needs, though he delights in teasing me about my exceptionally unreasonable demands for tea or the elimination of said tea.  Caregiving… that is not Sherlock’s natural area of talent and I will not say he is entirely comfortable in the role, but he actively tries to do his best and quickly took steps to modify his academic schedule so that he could tend to my care, as did Gregory for his job.  Sherlock has surprised me, actually, with his willingness to labor so assiduously for my benefit but I shall not deny the joy it has given me.”

      “John said he was younger than you… it can be very hard for a younger sibling to understand the role of the caregiver, since they are often the ones used to being taken care of.  But, that doesn’t mean they can’t and it sounds like your brother has risen to the challenge.  Again, that’s an important factor for your recovery.  Now, if I ask you if there is a troupe of devils associated with your relationship with your brother will you tell me I’m not being effective?”

      “Quickly and in a rather stentorian fashion.”

      “Ok, message received.  And that’s something I would expect for any siblings.  Overall, it sounds as if you have a very good support base at home and that home has the physical elements to promote a healthy recuperation.  And… you already have an affinity for a very effective therapy technique…”

Mycroft watched as the counselor rose from his seat and picked up a folder that the artist recognized, then reached down for a canvas that had been leaning against his desk.

      “You, Mr. Holmes, are immensely talented.  Your technique is amazing, but it is the energy of the pieces, their ability to evoke a response… when John talked to me he said he’d like you to meet with me because I might be able to connect with you through your art.  Honestly, I didn’t believe that how he described your work was accurate, since he admitted first off that he didn’t know much about art or its history.  But, I owe him a huge apology.  He said you were phenomenal and he was right.  I’ve had a lifelong interest in art and keep my eye on the galleries for the new talents… what you create transcends so much of what I’ve seen, I’m positively in awe of even these simple sketches.  Can you tell me what you think of your work?”

Mycroft felt so off-footed by the effusive praise that it took several moments for him to find his voice.  His Gregory and John… they adored his work, but they also would be prone to compliment, even if what he produced was dismal.  Somehow, Mycroft knew that the man smiling as he thumbed through the sketches he had completed during his hospital stay would not be so free with his words if he did not mean them.  That was… moving.

      “I cannot comment on the quality, for I believe that to be entirely at the discretion of the viewer, but I _can_ say that my art is and has always been of paramount importance in my life.  It has always been my stalwart and trusted companion, the balm for my troubles, the voice for my heart and core of my being.  I have devoted my life to my art, to creation and expression… it is as much a part of me as a limb or organ.  It… it has not always benefitted me in a tangible or financial way, but I wonder, at times, if it has been the mechanism that has kept me… through it I have weathered difficult times successfully and consider it not only my life but my _lifeline_.”

      “And your family considers it important, also?”

      “From the very beginning, Gregory realized what my art meant to me and he actively encourages me, supports me, in anything I do.  I never lack for supplies, for time, for solitude or silence.  He offers me inspiration and shows interest, true interest in what I produce.  I could not ask for more, for there is no more that could be given.”

      “And your brother.”

Ah… that was not such a happy story, now was it…

      “Sherlock… has come to understand of late the fundamental importance to me of my work.”

      “But this is a new perspective?”

      “My devotion… obsession, he would call it… for my art, has not benefitted him and that is a significant source of shame for me.  It has brought to him nothing good and I cannot blame him for resenting the time and effort I devote to my work.  He has seen a reduced quality of life because of my refusal to take another, more profitable path in life and he has just cause to see my actions as an injustice to him.  But, that is beginning to change.  Sherlock… knows more now.  He sees more and understands better my need to do what I do and behaves accordingly.  And I have promised to try and find avenues to see greater profit from the work I create.”

      “It can be hard for family to understand a consuming passion, especially if they believe they are being neglected because of it.  Sometimes they are and sometimes it is simply their own inability to share the attention of people in their lives with anyone or anything else.  But, it’s encouraging that you are noticing a change and we can talk about ways to foster an ongoing dialogue between the two of you to address the issue in a productive way so you can see that change grow to its maximum potential.”

If only the counselor knew Sherlock, he might understand better what a herculean challenge was that goal.  But, that was actually uncharitable… Sherlock _was_ trying and he was a blackhearted man if he denigrated that honest effort…

      “I would appreciate that.  My brother has been the only fixture in my life for many, many years and I would welcome the opportunity to make the coming years as enjoyable as possible for us both.”

      “Then we’ll make that happen.  Now, I would like, if you don’t mind, to discuss these pieces.”

      “I would have thought you had already analyzed their psychological message as part of the preparation for my visit?”

      “Oh, I did.”

      “Well?”

      “Well what?”

      “Are you not going to divulge your conclusions?”

      “Nope.”

      “Is this part of your the only thing that is important is what I think manifesto?”

      “Actually, yes.  And we will discuss what you think about them, only not today.  But, I will ask you this.  Are they accurate, in your opinion?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the person handing over the folder of sketches and decided that wasting his time deducing the thoughts of someone who dealt with pesky emotional matters was not a fruitful pursuit.  Looking through the sketches, the artist found himself transported back to those horrid days in his hospital bed, so racked with personal disgust that he had wanted a piece of sandpaper to try and scrape away the stench from his skin.  But…

      “Yes, I would say they are accurate.”

      “Both for the objects and for the people?”

      “I would say so.  I was not attempting to do more than render familiar things and had no desire or intent to infuse them with deeper meaning.  There was little in the way of personal reflection as I created these pieces.”

      “I see.”

Dr. Harper took back the sketches that screamed personal reflection and deeper meaning in a voice so loud it was nearly deafening and smiled gently as he held up the small canvas for the same inspection.

      “And this?”

      “Ah… no.  No, that is different.”

Mycroft had balked at John’s request to take this painting and only agreed on the condition that it could come home with him after this first meeting.  The sketches he could allow out of his hands for longer, but not this canvas.  This was far too precious.

      “Can you tell me what it presents?”

      “A memory, perhaps.  But not a physically-accurate one and that was not the intent.  My first assignation with Gregory… it was to be a different sort of night, but circumstances changed it into a walk.  A long and intimate walk, and I use that term in the sense that the conversation was of a highly personal and… challenging… nature.  A long walk by the light of the streetlamps… it was then that first I realized the strength of my Gregory’s character and the greatness of his heart.”

And fell head over heels in love, if the psychologist had any say in the matter.

      “It’s a very sensual piece.  And that’s really what I’d like to talk about for awhile, if we may.  It is a rare thing that I have the opportunity to speak to an artist about his work and I would like to make use of his chance, if possible.  There will be others, I assure you, because I hope to see more of what you create, but this is a good start.”

      “Is this some… technique for forging a connection with me?”

      “Absolutely, but it’s also an honest request based on interest alone.  Does that sound alright?”

Discuss his art with someone knowledgeable in the area?  The opportunity _was_ pitifully rare…

      “It does, actually.”

      “Good, let’s get started.”

__________

John was certaily not woken from a nap by the opening of the office door.  He’d been… thinking.  Very, very quietly.

      “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Holmes.  I’ll see you again next week.”

Watching Mycroft smile and shake hands with this therapist, John could only hope that his patient wasn’t being polite and had actually had a successful first visit.

      “I shall be here.”

As the office door shut, Mycroft swallowed and clutched his painting, taking mental stock of himself after this first step on the road.  One which would be very, very long…

_“And to think, I arrived here with a rather overwhelming sense of trepidation.  It seems I was being a tad hysterical in my imaginings.”_

_“For today, yes.  Today was for me to get to know you, establish a baseline of your understanding of your situation and assess what your support system looked like.  It won’t always be this… benign, Mr. Holmes.”_

_“Do call me Mycroft, please.  I suspect we shall see other with some frequency and I believe, for this situation, I would be more comfortable with a less formal mode of address.”_

_“Good.  I’m glad you’re leaning towards continuing with me.  I do think I can help you, Mycroft.  Next time, we’ll start examining the issues that you want to work on and get a better idea of the road ahead of us.  I would be prepared to talk to me a little about what happened that put you in hospital.  That will be a productive starting point, I think.”_

_“Oh… already?”_

_“As I said, our sessions won’t always be as easy as today.  To heal physically, you’re going through a lot of pain and it’s going to be the same for the work we do here.  But, the outcome will be just as beneficial – a healthier you.  Some days you are going to hate me and that’s normal.  You’ll hate yourself, too.  Also, normal.  Your family won’t be spared, either, but we’ll talk about how to handle feelings that we uncover so that any discussions you have with your family, if you undertake them, are productive and not destructive ones.”_

_“Do you… do you have any idea of how long this will take?”_

_“I wish I did, but no.  There is no set timetable, no range of treatment times I can offer you.  It will last precisely as long as it takes for you to see the progress you hope to make.  Every patient and every circumstance is different, so there is no judgment placed on how slowly or how quickly that progress is made.”_

_“I see.  And I appreciate your honesty.  Are there… have you treated patients who failed to make progress?”_

_“No, though there have been those who abandoned treatment before they reached the level they were hoping for.  It’s not an easy thing you’re embarking on, Mycroft, and some simply can’t see it through to the end for a wide variety of reasons.  And there are those who set their hopes unrealistically high and suffer grave disappointment when they can never reach that point.  But, I don’t believe any of that describes you.  I believe you aren’t looking for a magical solution that will make all of your problems, memories and experiences vanish, and I do think you have the commitment to follow through your with your treatment.  And, this is also something we will talk about.  We’ll stop and take stock now and then of how you think it’s going and what frustrations you’re experiencing.  Now, I think it’s time you rejoined Doctor Watson and let him get you home.  That’s another thing I do expect, Mycroft… honesty.  You should tell me if your physical pain is bothering you.  You should also tell John, so he can adjust your medication accordingly.”_

Dastardly man.  But not a particularly disagreeable one.  He was forthright and did have an extensive knowledge of both art history and the current London art scene.  Further… he seemed sincere.  There was an honest belief that this process would be helpful and that he could shepherd the therapy in a successful direction.  At this point, there was no evidence to say that was not going to be the case…

      “Mycroft?  Are you ok?”

That was the question of the moment, wasn’t it?

      “I am.  We enjoyed a fruitful introductory session and I am most hopeful that your selection of counselors will be a fortunate one.”

      “That’s great!  Really, that’s a great thing.  He did say that you could change, right?  You’re not locked into anyone and…”

      “Yes, that was discussed early on I am well aware that it is for me to choose if I wish to continue with him.  I believe I do, actually.  You were quite right… he is someone with whom I can connect and I am of a mind that such a thing will make discussion of difficult topics somewhat easier to bear.”

      “That’s important.  You do need some connection… it helps build trust and makes you more comfortable with… well, with all that you’re going to have to talk about.  Are you ready to go?”

      “Yes, and I will not lie that I am glad that Gregory left sufficient funds for a cab.  I… I am not feeling particularly well, at the moment.  Physically, I mean.”

      “Pain getting to you?  I thought it might.  Here.  And I’ll get you some water.”

John reached into his pocket and pulled out Mycroft’s pill container, handing it to the artist before he filled a paper cup from the drinking fountain.

      “I’m happy for you, Mycroft.  I know it wasn’t easy, but I’m very happy you came today.”

      “Now that the deed is done, I must admit that I am somewhat happy myself.  At least I may say that the journey has officially begun.”

      “That you can.  Now, take your pill and we’ll get out of here.  I’m sure Sherlock’s period of patient waiting is just about at an end.”

      “If there is any plaster left on the walls or glass in the windows, I shall be most surprised.”

      “I’ll sit him down for some mindless telly.  He’ll go into a stupor almost immediately and you can get a little rest.”

      “I would be forever grateful.  I would rather not be overly fatigued when Gregory arrives home.”

      “Yeah, I don’t think he’d want that either.  Randy bastard.”

      “Is there any better kind?”

      “Not that I know of.”

__________

Sherlock’s theatrics when they returned certainly put a smile on Mycroft’s face, even though his pain pill was not cutting through the ache as thoroughly as he had hoped.  Blessedly, John had allowed a second and that should be taking action soon, just in time for the doctor to help him into bed and get his easel and supplies prepared for the canvas which was positively begging to be started.  He needed to process his experience, reflect upon it, and there was no better way than with his art.

      “But, I want to leave _now_.  I need fresh beef tongue for my experiment and if I do not inoculate it today, it will not be ready for the second phase of testing tomorrow.

      “Sherlock, your brother needs to be situated first.  Besides, you could be non-twat and ask him how his visit went?”

      “If it had not gone well, he would not be able to hide the fact, so I can conclude it was not particularly upsetting.”

      “So full of concern… you’re the best brother in the world.”

      “Thank you, John.   I am happy you recognize my superiority in that category.”

John sighed loudly and assisted the grinning Mycroft into the bedroom.  At least his patient was used to reading between the lines of his brother’s nonsense.

      “You know, I can give him an injection of something so he sleeps for the rest of the week.”

      “Perish the thought, John.  Whatever would I do with that amount of peace and quiet?  It would be so unfamiliar as to be its own form of distraction.”

      “Well, once we get you settled, I’ll make certain you have some time to rest and paint.  Take him for a walk, hopefully for something other than tongue.  I’ve got my magic phone, now, so you can reach me immediately if you need me.”

      “What a special patient, I am.”

      “Just wait.  Once you’re feeling better, you’re going to be my personal gift maker.  Every time I have to give a gift for the rest of my life, I’ll be knocking on your door.  You have your personal physician; I have my personal artist.”

      “A very fair trade.  And I do believe I can manage from this point, so please go and ensure Sherlock has not chewed through Gregory’s dreadful drapes.”

      “They are crap, aren’t they?

      “It really is the only descriptor for the color.”

      “Yeah, they don’t even reach the right shade to be called ‘mud.’ “  Maybe Sherlock and I can do a little window shopping for them.  Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”

      “I shall.  Thank you, John.  For everything.”

      “You’re welcome.  I’ll check in on you later.”

Mycroft waited until the doctor left the room to let out his own heavy sigh.  He was in bed, with his supplies, Sherlock was being minded, there was water in his pitcher and there was still a full day ahead before his love returned home.  A perfect situation for opening his soul letting it guide his hand…

__________

Ok, only running a little late.  That was the problem with making last-minute decisions; they always fucked with your schedule!  Not that he really had a fixed schedule, he’d suffered two late days already this week, but he wasn’t going to let reality sully his nice little rant.  And, oh yes… it sounded like everyone was at home, provided the arguing about the telly wasn’t just… telly.

      “Oh look, Tintin and Snowy.”

      “John, Lestrade is delusional.  Do something about that.”

      “Greg, don’t be delusional and confuse Sherlock.  And what are you carrying?”

Sherlock lifted his head far enough off of John’s lap to peer over the back of the sofa and frowned at the wrapped box in the PC’s hands.

      “Oh no, he has purchased a gift.  Mycroft will now be even more insufferable than ever.”

      “Shut it, you.  I think Greg’s being very romantic buying your brother a present for his big day.  Want to tell us what it is, Mr. Lestrade, or is it too filthy and embarrassing to mention in public?”

      “Funny man.  Actually, come and see for yourself.”

Lestrade nodded towards the bedroom door and John nudged Sherlock’s head off of him to follow after, leaving Sherlock to pout a few seconds before his curiosity made him follow along, as well.

      “There’s my artist.  And making art, so his name actually fits!”

Mycroft felt his emotions rise seeing the large and brilliant smile on his lover’s face and patted the side of the canvas on which he was currently working.

      “That I am.  It has been a splendid day for painting and I gladly took advantage of it.”

      “That’s what I like to hear.  And… can I ask about your appointment?”

Sherlock made a rude noise, earning a pinch from John who moved around to get a better look at Mycroft’s painting, both for personal and professional sake.  A spectacular scene of London in the winter.  He had no idea how he could tell it was winter, but the piece somehow made that crystal clear and he could nearly feel the chill seeping into his bones the longer he gazed at its beauty.

      “That you can.  It went very well, I would say.  Just an introductory meeting, mind you, so only some small discussion of what I would consider salient issues, but it was both encouraging and informative.  I shall not say I look forward to my next appointment, but I shall also not say that I dread it.”

      “That’s fantastic!  I’m so happy for you, love.  Here, let me move that, so I can give you a proper kiss.”

Lestrade set down his package, which Mycroft desperately tried to decipher, and moved the easel and canvas to the floor, using the cleared space for better access to his artist’s luscious lips.

      “My curiosity is not being satisfied and now I am being tortured.  This is intolerable!”

      “Calm down, you little bastard.  First Mycroft get’s his hello and then we can turn attention to other things.  Like his gift.  Are you ready, love?”

Mycroft nearly clapped his hands with glee, but felt his hands drop to his lap when Lestrade picked up the box and handed it to Sherlock, who looked like he’d received a poisonous snake that was in a very bad mood.

      “What is this?”

      “Open it and find out.”

The student looked at John, who simply shrugged his shoulders, then began to remove the bow, ribbon and paper.  The plain box underneath gave no clue, but once the lid was off…

      “My… my violin.”

Mycroft’s gasp was as loud as John’s and the artist practically crawled over the bed to get a look at his brother’s instrument.

      “Gregory… you were able to retrieve it?”

      “Got paid today!  I already set aside about half of the funds earlier and said I’d cover the other half with my next round of wages.  I could have waited, but I thought you could use something special today and I think that Sherlock playing a little concert for us would be just the thing.”

This time, Mycroft couldn’t stop the water rising in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks.  His brother looked positively radiant, holding the violin that he’d removed from its case.  It was only a matter of moments before Sherlock had rosined his bow, tuned his strings and began to play, losing himself in his music as deeply as Mycroft did with his art.  For his part, John could honestly say that he’d thought his… Sherlock… could never be more gorgeous and now knew he was completely and utterly wrong about that.  Sherlock was incomparable with his instrument in hand… and he played marvelously…

Lestrade kicked off his shoes and took a space in the bed next to Mycroft, who was staring, completely mesmerized, at his brother, who was filling the room with the most exquisite music as he paced and swayed in the small space between the bed and the closet.

      “Well, love?  Like your gift?”

Mycroft didn’t even try to stop the tears and reached out to take the PC’s hand to hold.

      “I adore it.  I could not ask for anything better.  Thank you, Gregory.  Thank you so very much.”

      “Anything for you, Mycroft.  And for Sherlock.  Didn’t forget something personal for you, too.”

A quick reach into his pocket and Lestrade pulled out a piece of paper that he handed over for Mycroft to read.

      “This… am I reading this correctly?”

      “You are.  That’s my own gift card for one day with a bottle of champagne, some good chocolate, these two out of the flat and me following your every command.  You want me to pose, I pose.  You want me to… do other things… with you or while you watch, then you get whatever you want.  One day of pure decadence as a gift for being so brave and taking this step today.  I can’t ever tell you how much I admire you, Mycroft, but I can do my best to show you.  How does that sound?”

The artist didn’t even bother to answer, instead placing a small kiss on his on-paper promise and allowing his beloved to gently wipe the tears from his eyes.  Sherlock so lost in his music that he registered nothing around him, John absolutely transfixed by his brother’s performance, his Gregory by his side… no, the tears would not stop for awhile, but that was alright.  Some things were worth tears and this, what he had in this place, with these people, was surely one of them…


	38. Chapter 38

      “Love, are you sure you’re ok?”

Mycroft squeezed Lestrade’s hand and smiled gently as he continued their short, slow walk in the cold morning air, heavily assisted by the knee brace with which John had fitted him.

      “I am fine for the moment, Gregory.  I promised you I would tell you the very instant I felt it necessary to turn towards home, didn’t I?”

It wasn’t easy for Lestrade to put his trust in Mycroft, for this one thing, because his lover had proven time and again that he would try and hide his pain or fatigue if he thought it was going to be an inconvenience or bother to someone in their house.  But… he was trying…

      “Alright, good.  It’s a nice day, so we might as well soak up as much sunshine as we can.”

      “I agree.  And I am very happy to see again the outside world.  I find that the shapes, forms… the light and the energy… I have missed it greatly.”

      “I understand that.  You should see yourself when you’re at your spot, sketching or painting.  You’re absolutely… I don’t know the word to describe it, but it’s like you’re absorbing everything around you.  Like it’s all… inspiring you, somehow.”

      “It does.  And it is a rare individual who would discern, let alone understand, that fact.  Some nights, when it was simply Sherlock and I and he was gone to his laboratory, I would stroll through the streets, experiencing the life… the vitality _and_ the adversity… that the city held.”

      “Well, that’s something we can do a lot, because I enjoy that sort of thing, too.  And I know you probably want to do it alone, too, and that’s ok.  Whatever you need for your art is fine with me and I don’t want you to ever think you need to drag me along when you want a bit of quiet to yourself.  Is this something new since you moved to London or, when you were a kid, did you do that at home?  You lived in the country, right?”

Lestrade was always hesitant to broach any topic, no matter how innocent, that touched on Mycroft’s childhood, but he also didn’t want his partner to think that he was avoiding the subject.  That he was ashamed or felt uncomfortable about that part of Mycroft’s life.

      “I certainly did.  It was both inspirational and a much-needed solace for my soul.  I would wander and lose myself in the colors, textures and exquisite forms of nature.”

      “We can do that, too, if you’d like.  It’s only a train ride to some beautiful countryside and I’ve got days off, like today, and holiday time, too.  I think that would be a brilliant way to spend a day or two, me with a book I’ve been wanting to read and you with your art supplies.”

The PC adored it when Mycroft’s glee lit up his face and he leaned over to press a smack peck on his artist’s cheek.

      “Oh yes, you like that idea a lot.”

      “I confess I do.  I have sometimes longed for expanses of green, the free and clean flow of water and the sound of birds and breezes.  It would be a welcome thing to experience them again.”

      “Then that’s something that’s going on our list.”

      “Oh, do we have a list?”

      “Sure we do!  Filled with the things we want to do together.  All couples have lists, even if most of the items are about what they’re going to do on Saturday night or where they’re going for holiday this year.  Bigger things, too, but the important thing is that it’s what they’re going to do together.  So, that’s going on our list.  Time out in the country for the both of us.  Sounds positively brilliant.”

Mycroft stopped a moment and turned to take his partner in a firm hug that Lestrade eagerly returned.

      “How is it, my dear, that you ever paint the picture of our future in such mesmerizing and hopeful colors?”

      “Because that’s how I see it.  I know we’ll have rough patches, just like every couple in the world, but that’s as much a part of making a relationship strong as the strolls in the countryside.  The good times, though, are going to outweigh the bad by such a large margin that… well, all our lovely colors aren’t going to see much dulling from that pesky lot.  And what is it they say… you need a little black for the colors to really pop?”

      “Oh, very good.  My darling Gregory is a man of profound communication skills and, for that, I am eternally grateful.  And…”

Lestrade’s radar quickly picked up on the change of tone and clenched his hand to help hold back the urge to dig further.  Mycroft had something on his mind and he wasn’t going to spook his artist away from saying what he wanted to say.

      “I am also grateful that you did not… press… yesterday.  It was a difficult time and the lack of pressure to discuss it was extremely appreciated.”

Difficult was the least of the terms Lestrade would have used to describe it.  Mycroft had another appointment with his counselor and, when Sherlock brought him home from it, the lad immediately placed calls to him at the station, saying to be prepared when he came home that night.  And Sherlock was right… Mycroft was _inconsolable_ and wouldn’t even let him in the bedroom until it was past time to get some sleep.  Even then, he refused to say anything, shunning any form of attention or care, though tears were streaking his face and his muscles were rigid as bars of iron.  Apparently, this second appointment wasn’t as easy on his artist’s soul as the first one.

      “I only and always want what’s best for you, love, and John said… well he said that what happened during your sessions was yours to share or not as you saw fit and not to push you if you didn’t want to talk about it.  I’m not going to lie… I _wanted_ to know, but just so I could help you.  It was hard, very hard, not to be able to talk to you or hold you or even be near you to try to take away some of the pain, but, maybe you need that sometimes, to go it alone, I mean.  I just… don’t ever do it if you think I won’t want to hear what you have to say or that it’s going to upset me too much.  Can you promise me that?  If you need to keep things to yourself because you’re not ready to talk about them, that’s fine, but if you want to do that because you think it’s easier on me, you’ll fight that thought and talk to me anyway?”

Mycroft wondered if Lestrade understood what a remarkable man he was, but quickly realized he knew the answer.  Part of what made his lover remarkable was his genuine humility…

      “I shall.  That is a promise I will make to you and do my utmost to keep.  And I did need time, my dear.  Just some time to let the demons rage, so I could know better how many and of what strength they were.”

      “They must have been some big ones.  You weren’t in good shape, Mycroft.”

      “As I was warned by my therapist.  He was quite clear that some sessions would not be easy to bear, though, I do admit, I did not expect such a virulent one so close to the onset of our time together.  But, perhaps, neither did he.  He stopped our session a tad before the appointed hour so Sherlock could take me home.”

Something that had added its own measure of fuel to the fire that had threatened to immolate the artist.  Sherlock was completely overwhelmed and he… _he_ had no ability to reign in his distress to ease the burden on his brother.  That Sherlock phoned Lestrade immediately upon arriving home was testament to his level of upset – he needed a calm, authoritative voice to help settle him and, besides John, there was no other better suited for the task.

      “I hate to hear that, I really do.  It makes me want to say that you should put this off for awhile, until you have more of your strength back, but I have a feeling you’d tell me no.”

      “I would, though not out of stubbornness or pride, but… even the savagery of yesterday brought benefits.  I would not have thought…”

Mycroft paused for a long time and Lestrade simply nudged him to continue their stroll as if they didn’t have a care in the world.  If his lover wanted to talk, he’d talk.  Maybe there were things that, right now, Mycroft only felt comfortable sharing with someone he didn’t know and that was perfectly alright if it was helping him say _anything_ at all.

      “I apologize, Gregory…”

      “For what?”

Mycroft shrugged his shoulders and, to Lestrade’s shock, began to laugh.

      “A very good question!  _Everything_ is the succinct answer, but there is so much more than that, paradoxically.  If I was to winnow the list for the most proximal items…”

      “Winnow away.  Only if you want to, though.”

      “I both do and do not, hence the scattered and ineffective state of my mind.  Today… it shall be for hubris, which truly does define my life, however, I shall narrow the scope to… I thought it would not affect me.  I was both foolish and wrong to think so.”

      “It… what do you mean?”

      “The time I expended to settle Sherlock’s debt.”

Oh… _that_ it.  One very big it, indeed.

      “You didn’t think… earning that wage… was going to affect you?”

      “No… and yes.  Again, my communication abilities are truly lackluster in presentation this morning.  I knew that I would be damaged, even… more.  However, I did not think it would impact me.  I did not think it would… go beyond the physical, which is naught but clay.  I had suffered in the past, suffered wickedly, and bore the pain and impairment, carrying on with my days as if they were not there, with some small modifications, of course.  But this time…”

      “You can’t ignore it, can you?”

      “No!  I find I cannot.  It has gripped me in ways I cannot explain and truly do not understand and… as I tried to discuss the matter with Dr. Harper, it was as if someone had opened a sluice and allowed the black and terrible waters it held back to race out and choke the life from me.”

Lestrade simply held Mycroft’s hand and squeezed more firmly to show support as the artist spoke, breathing slowly through his own emotions so they didn’t spike and render him useless to give the aid Mycroft needed.

      “You nearly died, love.  I did ask, John, if you would have survived much more and he said no, you wouldn’t have.  That bastard was ready to give you another go when Sherlock and I got you out of there and there’s a very real possibility that… if we’ve gotten there later, I don’t think we’d have had anything to take out of there but your lifeless body or something so broken that you would never be fully functional again.  I think it’s perfectly natural and expected that you’re having a hard time letting go of that experience.  I’d be surprised if you _ever_ fully could, actually.  It was… I can’t even imagine what went on in there, Mycroft, and when I try I get so… I start to lose control of myself, too.  I’ve tried never to do it in front of you, but don’t think there are things in the flat and around the station that don’t exist anymore because they’ve given their lives to keep me from pummeling some poor bastard that happens to cross my path at the wrong time.”

There was an almost bashful flush to Mycroft’s skin and the PC mentally rubbed his hands together in congratulation for a job well done.  His artist was still tickled to be the focus of his attention and considered a prize worth defending.

      “How utterly primal of you.”

      “You like that, don’t you.”

      “I do find your protective instincts both a source of comfort and… invigoration.”

      “Then aren’t you lucky they’re never going to go away.  So, you need any protecting from that massive brain of yours, you just jump into these arms of mine and I’ll kick all those nasty thoughts right in their collective arses.”

Mycroft tried not to laugh, but it bubbled up anyway and he let it free, much to Lestrade’s delight.

      “Well, with that degree of safeguarding, I shall be the most secure man in England.”

      “And it’s my privilege to do it.  Got to preserve the wonderful people in this world and I drew the ace in that deck when I got you.  My Mycroft deserves everything I can give him and a lot more.”

Lestrade expected that he would see his lover smile a little at that last part, but, oddly, the artist seemed to fall into contemplation and the next several steps were made in silence, until a small sigh interrupted their quiet stroll.

      “And… I am of a mind that was part of yesterday’s distress.”

      “What was?  I don’t understand.”

      “I have never believed myself deserving of any good in this life.  What I endured, I accepted as my due.  In some ways, perhaps, I was grateful for the chance to do penance.  This time… it was harder to center myself on that core principle.  I could not as easily draw upon the notion that what was visited upon me was, in its way, right and proper.  That the goal far exceeded in importance what suffering I experienced.  I found myself wishing the cup would be passed, knowing, though, that it would not.  And I knew, _very_ keenly, what I had sacrificed to walk this path… you.  I had given away my chance to find happiness with someone I had come to love.  It burned my heart like a glowing coal and… this time, though I believe, and still do, that I do not deserve a man such as you, part of me hoped that it might be possible.  It was a pathetic hope, or, I should say, that was what I reminded myself over and over, but the hope still remained and refused to be vanquished.”

      “It hurts more, and more deeply, when you’re suffering and you don’t deserve it, is that it?”

      “And there is shame in believing that the onus is _not_ on you to take this burden as your own.”

      “There’s no shame there, love.  I understand it, though.  It doesn’t feel right to think that someone else should be taking the hit, there’s a wrongness to it that maybe you can’t put into words, but you feel it anyway.  Maybe, too, you feel weak and a bit useless that what’s happening bothers you.  That it hurts and you can’t put it out of your head and that the breaks and cuts wouldn’t have happened, in the first place, if you were stronger, somehow.  But... I’m hearing one major important message in all of this.  Want to hear it?”

      “If you are willing to share.”

      “Oh, I am.  Here’s the main thing I’m hearing.  You had a terrible session because, finally, you couldn’t handle the shite that had been done to you.  You started to realize that you didn’t deserve all the misery, pain and humiliation and it made you angry, sad, frustrated and like we said, maybe a little embarrassed.  And all of that is fucking fantastic, if you ask me, which you did, so there you have it.  I’d let out a whoop if it wouldn’t scare those old ladies over there and grab you up in the biggest hug I could give you because this is the best news you could have told me.  It’s _great_ news, Mycroft.  I’m… I’m not happy you had a terrible day and that you had to suffer more than you already have, but this was _good_ suffering.  I really believe that.”

      “Truly?”

      “A thousand percent.  And look how happy you are today!  What you said about opening the sluice and out the muck flowed?  Well, there you go… you got some muck out and now you’ve got a smile on your face and felt good enough to want to come for this lovely walk.  Good things, love… good things are happening…”

Mycroft couldn’t help but grin at his partner’s few dance moves on the sidewalk and then laugh when he was led through a few gentle moves as a couple.  His lover was right, though… he did feel especially buoyant today and had craved the feeling of sunshine on his skin, weak though it was this chilly day.  Perhaps Gregory was correct… it _had_ been a good thing, in the end.  If he was feeling especially charitable, he would share that bit of information with his therapist, but that was really a thought for another day.  Today was about joyful things shared with the love of his life and, today, he actually felt like he deserved them…

__________

Over Lestrade’s protests, Mycroft pushed their stroll as far as the small café that his partner frequented and batted his eyes to support his request for a hot cup of tea.  Lestrade shook his head and shambled along, doing his best Igor impression, muttering ‘Yes, master’ as he left Mycroft to wait outside the crowded café, though the fun and games faded as he started back with their beverages and he saw, through the window, Mycroft standing quietly with a soft smile on his face.  Not for the first time and surely not for the last, he felt his heart stutter at how gorgeous his artist was.  Yes, he was still upsettingly thin and, yes, there was still a haunted look that settled in his eyes sometimes when he thought nobody was looking, but Mycroft was still the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.  And today, there was sunlight on his milky skin…

      “Ah, yes.  Thank you, my dear.  The frost is certainly in the air, but this shall do much to keep its touch at bay.”

      “You sure you’re still alright to be on your leg?  John said to be careful you didn’t aggravate it.”

      “It is fine for now and I do not plan to take us further afield than we are currently.  I simply…  it has been so long since we have been able to enjoy a simple activity such as a walk and I am loathe to see the experience come to an end.  This morning I accomplished my morning routine with only a minimum of assistance and now I am with you doing as any couple in the city might on a delightful day such as this.  It is utterly refreshing.”

      “One day very soon, we won’t even have to think twice about popping out for walk.  And I know you’re eager to set up in your spot and share that incredible gift of yours with the rest of London.  I’ve gotten spoiled seeing all that amazing work you’ve been doing and I have to admit I’m a little jealous that I have to share that talent with other people again, but I know I can’t keep you to myself forever.”

      “I promise to reserve my most stirring works for your eyes alone.”

      “Very kind of you.  Of course, then I’ll feel guilty because the world is losing out on such a good thing.  Just set aside the sexy ones for me and that’ll do nicely.”

      “Do you mean along the lines of the piece I drew for you three nights ago when we had the flat to ourselves and John permitted me a proper measure of wine as an indulgence?”

That piece would _never_ be shown to the general public, if Lestrade had any say in the matter.  Him doing pleasant, yet private, things to himself was for his and Mycroft’s eyes alone.  And Mycroft would _not_ let him come until the final flick of pencil on paper, the evil bastard…

      “Exactly like that one.  And the rest of them you’re going to add to our personal collection over the years.”

      “A private portfolio of brazenly erotic images of the most exquisite man to walk the Earth… that is an idea I find extraordinarily agreeable.”

      “And some of me, too, ok?”

      “Gregory, you are a mischief, at times.”

      “But a mischief that brings more than tea to the party.”

Lestrade carefully reached into his pocket and removed a small bag containing what Mycroft could already smell was a particularly succulent pastry.

      “Good heavens, Gregory.  I believe the caloric value of that morsel would see a family of stoats content for a year.”

      “And they’re all scrumptious calories, too.  I’ve been a very good lad lately and eaten healthy things to keep John from complaining, so I deserve a little treat.  Since you’ve had to suffer healthy cooking, too, you can have your share of the decadence.  So, one bite for all of those peas I threw down my gullet last night…”

Mycroft had to admit that his lover was absolutely enchanting as he made a grand show of taking a large bite of pastry and slowly chewing its sweet and flavorful goodness.

      “I believe you also consumed a rather substantial portion of beef and some decidedly non-whole-grain bread.”

      “Stop blurring my healthy memories.”

      “There were potatoes also, my dear.  With a mountainous amount of butter.”

      “Now you’re making up things.”

      “ _I_ am not a teller of untruths.”

      “You’re a teller of _mountainous_ ones.  And if you bring up anything else, like my finishing off the wine by myself, then you’re going to lose your portion of my stoat banquet.”

And the sweetest part of the pastry was that Lestrade could see a bright spark of excitement in his artist’s eyes both from the teasing and the anticipation of at least a tiny nibble of their treat.

      “I have no memory of any grape-based libation passing your lips.”

      “Better.  Since I’m a man of my word…”

The PC held up the pastry for Mycroft to bite and got a small shock as his lover took a substantial piece into his mouth and bit down with no noticeable hesitation.

      “…mblcious.”

      “That good?  We’ll have to make this a regular stop on our little jaunts, then.”

      “…igreewholhrdly.”

The happy couple shared a knowing grin and it was quite understandable that neither noticed an additional person had joined their small piece of sidewalk territory.

      “PC Lestrade.”

      “Oh!  Oh… hello, sir. It’s my off day, sir.  I’m not eating pastries on the job, not that there’s anything wrong with that, because we often have a quick nibble when we have a slow moment to keep up the strength, but it’s usually not quite this… much… I have to admit and…”

      “And you must be Mycroft.”

      “Yes, sir.  He is.”

      “And that is something I suspect your partner is able to convey on his own, PC.”

      “Yes, sir.  Mycroft, you can tell the Inspector you’re you.”

      “Gregory, is the sun becoming too warm for you?”

      “I’m not sure about anything at this point.”

      “Have another bite, my dear.  It will soothe your humors.  And yes, sir, I am Mycroft Holmes.  You must be Gregory’s superior officer.  I have heard quite a bit about you and I assure you it was decidedly laudatory.”

      “Well, that’s good to hear.  It’s considered bad form to sack an officer for being a pain in the arse, but this one’s already come close a few times, so I don’t think anyone would complain too much if he found a change of employment.”

Lestrade smiled the sickliest, most worried grin in the history of the nation and Mycroft took pity on his partner and didn’t openly laugh at him.

      “But he does look quite formidable in his uniform, so I suspect his presence is a powerful crime deterrent in any area of our fair city.”

The quick kick Lestrade hoped to surreptitiously land to his artist’s ankle connected with the weaker of the two legs and Mycroft’s wobble was accompanied by a truly amused smirk shot at the offender which, Lestrade, was glad to see, distracted his partner enough to miss the look of concern on the inspector’s face.  Mycroft looked good today, better than he had for a long time, but you still couldn’t miss that he was terribly unwell.

      “I suppose we’ll have to keep him, then.  Though, it’s going to be a shame losing his uniformed assistance on the streets keeping the miscreants in line, since his current wardrobe isn’t nearly as stylish.  And how are you doing, Mr. Holmes?  Lestrade tells me you’re feeling better, so I hope he’s not telling tales.  That’s another sackable offense, you know.”

Mycroft kept his eyes off of his partner and squarely on the inspector so the older man didn’t notice that Lestrade was frozen in place trying to process the information he’d just heard.

      “Better, and I must offer you my gratitude for permitting Gregory the time to help with my little medical issue.  It was of immeasurable value and I am a far more hale and hearty man because of his attentive care.”

      “We do try to assist our officers when we can and I was glad be of help.  Besides, it wouldn’t do for one of our local legends to find himself off the job for too long, now would it?  Already, my mother-in-law is asking when that nice young artist is going to be back near the park so she can have a sketch done for her sister’s birthday.”

      “Oh… she knows my work?  Please, do pass along to Gregory what are her specifications and I will be delighted to provide her with whatever she desires.  Now, actually, is a splendid opportunity to make a request as I have an abundance of time to see it fulfilled properly.”

      “I will.  That will certainly keep my wife happy, too, and that is always something to be desired.  Now, if you will excuse me, I do have a meeting to attend.  Lestrade, stop in tomorrow to see me before you carry on with your assignment.  Mr. Holmes, it was very good to meet you in person.”

The happy couple found themselves alone again and Mycroft took a moment to give Lestrade a substantial thump on the back to remind him to breathe.

      “Mycroft… tell me I wasn’t still having some form of episode and really heard what I heard.”

      “You certainly did.  There was no specific statement of intent, however, I believe there was a decided hint of a shift in how you might be utilized by your employers.”

      “I didn’t hear of a position opening, but I… do you think I might really have a chance?”

      “I would say that particular topic would be the focus of your conversation in the morning.  But, from what I observed, your inspector was rather smugly holding back something and I believe we may surmise what that something might be.”

The last of the pastry was popped into Lestrade’s mouth and Mycroft took a moment to kiss away the stray bits of sugar decorating his partner’s lips.

      “Ok… I think that just put a little extra spring in my step.  Which, with already walking on a cloud since I’m out with you, is making it pretty fucking hard to keep my feet on the ground.”

This next kiss was sugar-free, but exactly as sweet as the last.

      “Then I shall do my best to act as a tether and prevent your floating away like a child’s balloon.”

      “I think… if I have another pastry, that might be enough extra weight for ballast.”

      “Then another pastry you shall have!  And I feel the urge for a celebratory bite myself, if you do not mind.”

      “I’ll get a really big one, so we can celebrate in grand style.  Here, prop up the building while I get it.”

Mycroft indulgently allowed himself to be escorted the few steps so he could lean against the building and waited contentedly while Lestrade darted back inside the café for another pastry.  What an utterly spectacular day.  It was an illogical thought, but he could not help but believe that this was some form of reward for the effort he had been honestly been putting into his recovery and his genuine attempts to include his lover in that recovery as a full partner in the process.  Well, he ultimately had no issue with reward-based encouragement, especially if it graced his beloved Gregory, as an ancillary benefit.  Tomorrow evening, there might very well be greater reason to celebrate and he, for one, was more than happy for that celebration to arrive in full force.

__________

John allowed himself a rather loud, rude noise as he prepared another cup of tea to help him conquer the paperwork he had waiting for him at the end of his shift.  No matter how important it was, it just didn’t have the appeal of sitting on Lestrade’s sofa and listening to Sherlock play.  Which he’d done the past two nights and, frankly, was craving another.  A little dinner, a little telly and then the sound of an expertly played violin sending him to sleep.  Having to wear some of Lestrade’s clothes to work the next day was a small price to pay for such a wonderful evening, even with the snickers about the rolled bottoms of his trouser legs.  It was a good thing, too, that the PC’s building had some respectably thick walls and the neighbors were a little on the elderly and hard-of-hearing side because Sherlock had no issue playing into the wee hours, completely lost in the music he was making.  That his non-nocturnal companion had fallen asleep to it, didn’t phase the student in the slightest.

As he played, Sherlock was as oblivious to the rest of the world as was Mycroft when he was painting and it was much easier now to understand how his world had gone off-center when he’d lost it.  It was very much the same was what happened to Mycroft in hospital when he didn’t have access to his paints.  Actually, that wasn’t true, because Mycroft could draw, while Sherlock had nothing to replace his precious violin, though Mycroft did carry an additional layer of guilt knowing he was the one who took it to pawn.  New rule for patient care… make certain Sherlock’s violin stayed in his hands no matter what circumstances arose.  That would go a long way to keeping both Holmes brothers in the best possible frames of mind.

John raced through the papers that were beckoning him as quickly as he possibly could, though _quickly_ took a lot longer than he would have liked and as soon as he was able, grabbed his jacket and made his way towards Lestrade’s flat, which has become the default gathering spot for their merry band.  On arriving, though, the doctor was more than a little surprised to find Mycroft out of bed, reclining on the sofa with a king’s ransom of pillows under, behind and around him keeping him comfortable.

      “John!  Demand that Mycroft remove himself from the sofa immediately.  Tell him it is some form of health concern so he will believe you.”

      “The fact that you just announced your secret, fiendish plan out loud sort of makes it meaningless, Sherlock.  I’ll give you lessons on how to give sneaky signals later when the old people aren’t watching.”

Sherlock huffed loudly from his smallish armchair and Lestrade happily waved at him with the rudest gesture he could manage.

      “Listen to John, lad; you always need those little signals to let your other half in on what you’re thinking so everyone else remains in the dark.  For instance when I do this…”

Lestrade grabbed his crotch and gave it a squeeze.

      “… that lets Mycroft know that I’m thinking about him and can’t wait until we get a moment alone.”

Lestrade accepted Mycroft’s cushion to the face with utmost dignity and savored every second of Sherlock and John’s very dramatic gagging.

      “And we all now agree never to mention secret couple’s communication ever again.”

      “You brought it up, you useless medic.  Now, why don’t you take a seat and jump into the grand telly argument.  There’s a great match on tonight and I’m outvoted with these two in the house.  Not that _they_ can agree on anything, since Sherlock doesn’t want to watch the old movie that Mycroft is championing and Mycroft refuses to suffer the ‘salacious twaddle’ of the serial killer documentary that caught Sherlock’s eye.”

      “Sensationalist nonsense appealing only to the lowest of minds.”

      “As opposed to the sterile, antiquated offerings from the cinematograph that appeal only to the most stuffy and pompous of ambulatory mummies.”

      “See my problem?  Come on, John.  Help out a mate in need.”

John made a dramatic show of serious and deep thinking then shook his head no, before he turned into the kitchen to search for what remained in the flat for alcohol, enjoying the sound of Lestrade’s anguish as Sherlock began again arguing for his showcase of murder.  As he decided between beer and scotch, John had to admit, with no uncertainty that this was _nice_ and something he missed since he left Uni and his social group scattered to the four winds.  He still had a few people he kept in contact with, but not for more than a quick evening out for a pint.  This… this was a welcome thing to have in his life and he wasn’t the type to take that sort of luck for granted.

Snatching a surplus cushion from the sofa, the doctor settled on the floor next to Sherlock’s chair and quickly confiscated the remote control, changing the channel to the match and stowing the remote under his jumper to keep grabby hands away from his prize.

      “There, you lazy excuse for a policeman.  Never say I didn’t give you anything.”

Lestrade’s arms raised in victory made Mycroft laugh, despite his absolute abhorrence of anything and everything related to team-based sports.  In fairness, he _would_ have to become used to sharing the evening’s entertainment with his partner, regardless of his partner’s abysmal taste in said entertainment, however, with effective use of his masculine wiles, he might be able to, on occasion, turn his lover’s attention from the more disagreeable programs on offer.

      “John, I am now ready to leave.”

      “Nope, Sherlock, I’ve had a long day, and a match, some of Greg’s awful beer and a good neck rub, is the perfect way to end it.  Which I currently can only claim to have two of, so I wonder what I have to do to get the last one on my list tended to.”

This time, Mycroft’s laugh was at his brother’s obvious confusion until the student realized that John meant for _him_ to step up and take action.

      “You are too short for me to reach.”

      “Oh well, two out of three isn’t bad.  Now, let me get business out of the way so I can really relax.  Mycroft, how was the walk?  And don’t lie, because I’ll throw my beer at you and it’s a sin to waste good beer.  Or cheap beer, in his case.”

      “My veracity shall be unimpeachable for, in this case, there is absolutely no reason to dissemble.  Gregory and I enjoyed a very successful walk and, with the aid you provided to me, I suffered minimal discomfort with no lingering effects because of the exertion.”

      “Greg, can you impeach his veracity?”

      “No peaches coming from me, John.  We had a great morning and Mycroft did an amazing job, knowing just when to say enough was enough so he didn’t push himself too far.  Got our share of fresh air and good London sunshine, plus a couple of especially fine pastries to make the morning particularly special.”

Though his artist only enjoyed two moderate bites of the snack, but that was two more than naught, so Lestrade was declaring it a victory.

      “Ok, then I can stop worrying.  Do keep an eye on that knee, though.  The rest of you is alright for a short, gentle walk, but that knee won’t stand a lot of stress right now.  Let me know if it starts to bother you, though, don’t think it’s a minor thing that you can ignore if you want to enjoy pain-free walks in the future.”

      “I shall take your advice to heart, John, I make you that promise.  Our promenade was most agreeable and I hope to enjoy another at our earliest opportunity, which certainly will not be enhanced by a painful joint.  As it was, I believe I presented a not-entirely feeble picture to Gregory’s superior when we met him in the street and that was a blessing of no small consequence.”

      “If it is the imbecile that I met at the police station, Lestrade could have been pushing you along in a hospital bed and the oaf would have believed you to be a marble statue of Adonis if you had told him you were in a sufficiently godlike voice.”

      “Hey!  You watch your tongue, Sherlock.  Especially if you happen to pay one of your completely unnecessary and cripplingly distracting visits to me at work.  He’s got his eye on me and, for the time being, it’s a favorable eye.  I don’t want you messing things up with that blathery mouth of yours.”

      “Oh, does Mycroft now have to prepare for a ménage a trois?”

      “Funny.  No, sorry about that.  I mean the complete opposite of funny and, for that, don’t think you’re getting me to cook dinner for you tonight.  You want to eat, rattle your own pots.”

      “In that case, John and I will find our evening meal elsewhere.  You will provide me the funds to purchase dinner.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and decided that he would begin to spend some time each evening outside of the bedroom.  The camaraderie had its own healing effect and he intended to take full advantage of it.  Seeing Sherlock interact positively with a group was a highly welcome balm for his soul and, in some ways, that was the part of him that was in greatest need of repair.

      “I’ll provide you the funds to purchase a muzzle, you arse.”

      “That makes no sense.  The structural configuration of a standard muzzle makes it completely unsuitable for affixing to the buttocks.”

      “Oh god… John, feel free to jump in at any time.”

      “Shush.  You’re making our side lose.”

      “Mycroft?  You want any of this or do I have to keep going it alone?”

      “Huzzah!  I believe we have scored.”

      “That’s not our team.”

      “It was a bracing effort, nonetheless.”

      “Cast adrift by the yobs in my life… knew it would happen someday.”

      “Remember to liberate your wallet from your trousers before you float too far afield.  John will not be happy having to swim through your self-pity to retrieve it.”

      “Sherlock, when Gregory formally assumes his mantle as a police detective, I believe his first official act will be to plant evidence on your person to assure you a prolonged stay as Her Majesty’s guest and secure for the rest of us a well-deserved, and peaceful, respite.”

      “In the first place, brother dearest, Lestrade’s ability to affect the sufficient level of cunning and dexterity to hide anything on me stands precisely at nil and, in the second place, his performance as a detective is an affront to the already-laughably low standards of the police service and he shall likely not see a shift in position until the year of mankind’s colonization of Jupiter.”

Mycroft and Lestrade shared a look that had both Sherlock and John narrowing their eyes with suspicion, with Sherlock being the first to demand an explanation.

      “What?  What are you hiding from John and me?”

Another look to decide who would make the announcement and Mycroft felt very proud that the honor fell to him.

      “During our walk, as I indicated, we encountered Gregory’s supervisor and he hinted, quite strongly, that the position Gregory currently occupies might not be as temporary as we had believed.”

      “Really?  Greg, that’s terrific.  Really, mate, that’s amazing news.”

      “Oh dear lord… has London sunk so low that it is reduced to dredging the muck and mire for the keepers of the peace?”

      “Thanks, John.  And fuck you, Sherlock.  Anyway, I don’t know anything for certain, but Mycroft’s not wrong when he said the hint was strong.  I know I’ve been doing a good job, really doing my part, so maybe something’s opening and I’ll get some extra attention if I apply.  But… it definitely could be that my PC days are over and my DC days are starting.”

Sherlock snorted loudly, but neither Mycroft nor Greg failed to notice the spark of something in the student’s eyes that closely resembled happiness.

      “And now we will have to be assailed by the sight of more of what you laughingly consider acceptable attire.  The second-hand clothing vendors are already counting their farthings in preparation for your shopping spree.”

Happiness that could be expressed in a dizzying and baffling array of forms.

      “Hey!  I don’t do such a bad job of picking my clothes.  Besides… maybe Mycroft can come shopping with me and make certain I get the most stylish things my farthings will buy.”

      “It shall be my honor to accompany you on a shopping excursion, my dear.  I comported myself well on my maiden voyage this morning and I have no doubt that, given a few more days of rest, I shall be able to manage the additional time on my feet quite handily.”

      “It’s a date!  Of course, it all depends on what I hear tomorrow, but… I could do with a few new pieces for winter, anyway, so no matter what happens, we’ll make a trip to the shops to see what they have to offer.”

      “Excellent.  And we can find Sherlock his new scarf so mine finally might be returned to me.  I do miss it when the weather turns chill.”

      “You miss your tattered scarf because you foolishly believe it makes you look something other than boring and pompous.”

      “Ah, that explains why you have kept it so long, brother dear.  Its brand of magic truly has worked _wonders_ for you.  Behold, it has even secured you a… John!”

Sherlock’s glare was electric and John laughed, along with Lestrade, but made a mental note to think of some term to describe him and Sherlock.  People at work were beginning to ask and it was becoming awkward to keep calling Sherlock his friend.  Nurses don’t have a great deal of patience for matters concerning relationships.

      “And all it could secure _you_ was a concrete-trodding policeman.  I have obtained a doctor, which is a far higher-ranking profession.”

      “Yet, my policeman boasts a flat to house our evenings of entertainment and a body which has inspired many a artistic composition of exquisite beauty.”

      “I have seen some of your so-called compositions and from my observations, I can assure you that John would make a far more _substantial_ model.”

      “AND on that note, how about we make a start on dinner?  Sherlock you come with me and leave alone any further discussion about me and my… substantialness.”

John looked at Greg, rolled his eyes and finished his beer, before making his way to the kitchen, dragging a protesting Sherlock behind him.

      “Sherlock is quite mistaken, my dear.  Your form is, unquestionably, the most striking to have ever graced the world of art.”

      “Flatterer.  But, I’m not going to complain.”

      “Very good.  And may I say… I never thought that a night at home could be a supremely enjoyable experience until I met you.  This is positively glorious, Gregory, and I am not ashamed to admit that I cherish these moments with all that I am.”

      “I feel the same way, so there’s not a bit of shame involved.  And, if it’s not presumptuous for me to say, you and Sherlock seem to be getting along a little better, which makes the time that much more enjoyable.”

      “It is not at all presumptuous and I heartily agree.  I do give John a great deal of the credit for that, and you, as well, but I am of much lighter heart of late because of his and my interactions.  There shall never be between us, I feel, the lighthearted spirit of bonhomie, but I sense that we are moving in a far more positive direction than we have in the past.”

      “And I know how happy that makes you, love, so I am ecstatic to hear it.  This has been a good day, yes?  And now we’ve got something resembling dinner coming and a little more telly for our viewing pleasure.  Then, of course, a long night in bed for _other_ sorts of pleasure.”

Seeing the incalculably erotic combination of love and desire in Lestrade’s eyes was, without doubt, the most arousing thing the artist ever witnessed.  And he was blessed to see it so very, very often…

      “I anxiously look forward to it.  And, perhaps, I might take, this evening, a slightly more active role in our long night in bed.”

      “Nothing that might hurt you, though, right?”

      “Perish the thought.  I would do nothing to impede the progress I have made and push further back our nights of truly unbridled passion.”

      “Which are fucking mind-blowing.”

      “That they are.  And much anticipated.”

      “You know… we’ve got some time until dinner is ready…”

      “Unfortunately, I believe Sherlock would glean our intentions and rapidly dissolve into a tantrum-throwing child of two, somewhat ruining the pleasure of our experience.”

      “You could be right.  After dinner will be soon enough.  Until then, we can just have eye sex and make the young ones squirm.”

      “And your eyes are truly beautiful to behold.”

      “Flattery will get you _everywhere_.”

      “Such is my intent.”

__________

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and let his mind run for a few moments through the events of last night.  Mycroft surely hadn’t been joking about wanting a more active role in their lovemaking… it took some doing to get him into a position where the artist could comfortably use that gorgeous mouth of his for some very nasty and magical things, but they’d done it and he was still tingling from the result.  The best part, though, was that Mycroft was showing definite signs of personal improvement in that area and it might not be long before _he_ was the one using his mouth to show his lover a tingly good time.

      “Ah, Lestrade… you’re here early.”

Because the early bird got the worm and he definitely liked fat, juicy worms…

      “Yes, sir.  I know I’m learning the job and a little extra time helps me keep up with the rest of the lads.”

      “Smart.  Which is something I wanted to talk to you about.  Come with me.”

Being sought out by a superior officer wasn’t often a good thing, but Lestrade kept his fingers crossed that this was one of the rare exceptions.  Walking silently behind his inspector, the PC followed along to a very familiar office and took a seat when it was offered.

      “How would you rate your performance as a detective, Lestrade?”

Apparently, there wasn’t going to be any foreplay this morning.

      “I’d rate it as good.  I think I’ve done a good job and made a solid contribution to the case I’m working on.  I’ve worked hard and made sure to ask questions when I wasn’t sure about something.  Listened and watched a lot, too, to see how things are done.  I think I’ve brought some useful things to the table and, if I can say so, I get along with the others, so it’s been a good work experience for them and me both.”

Was that too arrogant?  Maybe he should have been a little more humble.

      “I agree and I’m glad that you see that, too.”

Guess not.

      “What I wanted to talk to you about, Lestrade, was some staffing changes we’re going to see around the station.  I’ve been arguing for an additional two bodies on the streets and one new addition to the detectives and it seems I’m getting my wish.  Now, I _will_ have to post the positions, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have final word on who gets the job and… since you’re already in place, it seems a wise move to keep you where you are and concentrate on hiring three PC’s to round out our ranks.  I’m only approved for a detective constable’s salary, in any case, so you’d be a good fit from that standpoint, too, though… did I hear a rumor you were looking to take the sergeant’s exam?”

      “I… I’m thinking about it, but not this very minute, since this case is really occupying a lot of my time and I have other things on my mind at home, as well.”

      “Again, smart.  Make sure you’ve got the time to prepare because it doesn’t feel very good to fail when something’s important to you.  So, I expect to see your application on my desk as soon as the position is officially posted and, until then, keep going with the case, which, in case you’re wondering, I’ve been informed you are doing a very good job with.”

If it was at all proper for him to jump up and down shouting with glee, Lestrade would be doing a riotous dance in the inspector’s office that would shatter the windows from its intensity.  As it was, he was having a very hard time choking down his excitement because he’d basically been told he was formally going to move into the detective ranks.

      “Thank you, sir.  Really thank you for everything.”

      “You’re very welcome.  And now, we can talk about this.”

Lestrade watched as a piece of paper was slid across the desk and paled when he saw the name written across it in jet black ink.   A name that punctured his euphoria like a nail in a tire.

      “I… how did you…”

      “It’s my station, Lestrade, and I do keep an eye on what’s going on, no matter how small.  Now, would you like to tell me your interest in this man?”

No, no he wouldn’t, because that would stir up a lot of questions that he didn’t want to answer.

      “I’d rather not, actually.”

      “Alright, let me phrase it this way, _tell me_ your interest in this man.”

      “Sir… really, it’s…”

      “Unless this is for a case, use of police time and resources to gather information on a member of the public is something rather heavily frowned upon.”

      “No!  You don’t understand… I only took a look through things during a lunch break or two and it was information I could have gotten through other… non-police… ways, though it would have taken a lot more time.  I didn’t peek into anything I wasn’t supposed to without due cause, I promise you that.  I wouldn’t do _anything_ to endanger my job or violate police ethics.  That’s not who I am… no matter how much… ok, I’m stopping now.”

      “No, I think you’re just beginning.  I believe you if you say you stayed out of unacceptable areas, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re investigating someone and I need to know the reason why.”

      “Please, sir.  I give you my word that…”

      “Now, PC.”

Lestrade closed his eyes and said a very large ‘I’m sorry’ to his artist.

      “Can I… can I ask that this stay between you and me?”

      “If it’s not something that involves a violation of your code of conduct, then yes.”

      “Ok… because… this would _devastate_ Mycroft if word got around.”

Lestrade took a deep breath and let the story flow out, not sparing one detail, realizing that this was the first time he’d told another soul the whole tale of his artist’s misery and his role in trying to help Mycroft recover from it.  When it was over, he felt like he’d run a marathon and he couldn’t tell from his inspector’s face if he’d won or lost.

      “I’m sorry, Lestrade.  I honestly didn’t think the situation was that… terrible.  I knew something awful had happened to your Mycroft and seeing him in the flesh confirmed it, but… is he getting help?  That type of abuse doesn’t heal easily, especially if he’s suffered it for as long as he has.”

      “He is.  He’s seeing someone who I think is going to be good for him and we talk, too.  It’s not easy for either him or me, but he knows he’s got someone to listen to him when he needs to talk about things and I make sure he gets every chance that I can give him.”

      “That’s good.  For both of you.  And you might consider sitting down with a counselor, too.  We’ve got some good ones in the area specifically for police use and they’re happy to talk about anything and everything.  Please don’t hesitate to pop your head in to one of their offices for a chat if… well, if you need an ear of your own.”

      “I’ll do that, sir.  I know I need to keep myself in top shape to give Mycroft the best care I can and to do my job to the best of my abilities.  I’ll do whatever I have to in order to make that happen.”

      “Do it for _yourself_ , son.  Not for your partner or the job.  You don’t need any reason to take care of yourself other than _you_ are important and need to be well.  And, I understand why you’re anxious to see this kept quiet, so you can rest assured I won’t spread around your story.  Such a hellacious thing for a person to suffer… I’m sure the guilt you say he feels eats at him like acid.  I agree that it might be difficult to pursue a case against this bastard, especially if your partner won’t bring charges, but… people like this don’t always confine themselves to so-called _consensual_ acts.  I consider it prudent to keep an eye on this individual and see what can be done to keep our citizens safe from his… tastes.  Check his financials and phone records.  Check his work history and see if there are any complaints filed by co-workers or subordinates.  If anyone asks, tell them I’ve okayed it.  Now, get back to work.  You’ve got a busy day ahead of you and getting a late start isn’t going to be to your credit.”

The little wave of dismissal was the most wonderful thing in the world, from Lestrade’s point of view, since he could simply race out of the office and not have to struggle to give voice to the emotions boiling in him and the sheer gratitude that was bursting to be let out in very embarrassing ways.  Apparently, yesterday’s good happenings were carrying over to today and he, for one, was not going to take that bit of luck for granted.  They’d had so very little luck in all of this that each piece was worth its weight in gold and he was content to bank all he could get…


	39. Chapter 39

      “John?”

      “Hmmm…”

      “John?”

      “Hmmmmm?”

      “JOHN!”

      “AAHH!!   Fuck me, Sherlock.  Don’t yell like that… you nearly gave me heart failure.”

      “You were not answering me.”

      “Sleeping people generally don’t respond well to questions.”

      “Sleep is boring.”

      “Then let me go back to being boring and you can have a party in your head and be awake as you’d like.”

      “We need to talk about the case.”

      “What case?”

      “Mrs. Hudson’s case!”

      “Oh.  Why do we have to talk about that now?”

      “Because I’m thinking about it _now_.”

      “And I’m _sleeping_ now, so how about we do that instead?”

      “Because that will not aid Mrs. Hudson’s case, of course.”

      “Oh god…”

John squirmed out from under the blanket and sat up in his bed, scratching all the right places before settling with his back against the headboard next to Sherlock.  And, to think, he’d believed that a night at _his_ flat might actually be quiet and restful.

      “Alright, I’m awake.  Now, what is it you’re thinking about that can’t wait until morning?”

      “We have a problem.”

      “Yes, and his name is Sherlock Holmes.  Is that really why you decided to wake me?”

      “I am being serious, John.  What is the endgame of our initiative?”

      “Get Mrs. Hudson’s husband sent somewhere for a very long time where he’ll get pummeled every day by very large blokes with names that are really more job descriptions than anything else, like Killer and The Hammer.”

      “Precisely.  Therein lies our problem.”

      “What?  It’s official.  I have no idea what you’re talking about.  Ever.  It’s all some sort of code and witchcraft.”

      “Use your mind, John!”

      “It’s still asleep!”

      “Think, John… what is Mrs. Hudson’s source of income?”

      “That would be… oh.  Mr. Hudson.”

      “And when he is incarcerated, she will be without means.”

      “You know, I never really thought about what happens to the families of people who go to prison.  I mean, if you’d gotten a few years, Mycroft would have dissolved, but he’d have had Greg to keep a roof over his liquidy head.  And don’t forget, you’ve still got your community service to do.”

      “Irrelevant.”

      “Very relevant because if you don’t do it, they’re going to put you away and toss the key in the Thames.”

      “In the spirit of efficiency, you should serve it for me, so I may fully focus on the problems at hand.”

      “Oh no, not going to happen.  Don’t even, for one single moment, waste any more thought or breath on that particular piece of lunacy.”

      “Your dedication to my work is decidedly uninspiring.”

      “Yeah, that stung.  Anyway, back to what is _actually_ a problem worth considering… what are we going to do about Mrs. Hudson?  Do you think they own that property outright?”

      “I have no idea, but the taxes, utilities and upkeep would be considerable, whether a mortgage exists or not.  And, factoring in basic living costs…”

      “And, it’s not as if, do not repeat this or I’ll kill you, she’s not young anymore.  Starting over isn’t easy for anyone, but… we need to make certain she’s going to be able to make it after the Mr. gets his just rewards.”

      “What if he was killed?”

      “Sherlock, we are not assassinating your former landlord.”

      “I didn’t say _we_ would do it.  I’m certain if the police had sufficient provocation…”

      “No, and again, no.”

      “I shall speak to Lestrade on the issue.”

      “No and, a second again, no.”

      “Your opposition to my ideas is boring.”

      “Trying to keep you out of prison, Sherlock.”

      “I would not go to prison, Lestrade would.  Or another of his useless brethren.”

      “Sherlock, you do realize this isn’t America and the police aren’t laden with firearms, right?”

      “Further proof of their uselessness.  I suppose I shall have to go undercover, then.”

John grabbed the edge of the blanket and gripped down hard to keep from releasing the frustrated shout that was pushing to get out of his lungs.

      “Why in the world would you need to go undercover?”

      “I shall infiltrate whatever organizational structure that is managing this business and spread rumors that our quarry is behaving in a traitorous fashion.  Perhaps… yes, he shall be an informant for the police.  They will do the killing for us and Mrs. Hudson can inherit his ill-gotten gains.”

      “And an entire sack of ‘no’ is upended on the bed so you can browse through to find one that’s especially shiny and catches your fancy.”

      “You are absolutely no help!”

      “Keeping you out of prison, alive and with all your limbs in working order is a great deal of help, I’d argue.”

      “You would be wrong.”

      “Oh well, woe is me.  Now, I agree that we have to think about Mrs. Hudson’s situation and talk to her to learn what she has in place for her future; however, this isn’t the time to get any of that done, so how about we actually get a little sleep tonight and work on it in the morning?”

      “Productive hours wasted on nothing but the process of drooling.”

      “I don’t drool.”

      “Your stained pillow linens tell a different tale.”

      “Well… you spew gas like an erupting volcano.”

      “I do no such thing!”

      “Yes, you do.  I can’t even light a match because the room would explode and that is _not_ the way I want to die.”

      “Not only is that offensive, it is scientifically inaccurate.”

      “Which makes it hurt all the more.”

      “Your evil is astounding.”

      “And now, so shall be my sleep.  Come on, Sherlock.  We came here to get a little rest without being disturbed by the lovebirds and their goings on or Greg leaving early for work.  Let’s take advantage of it and whatever you want to do tomorrow, we can do.  I don’t have to be at work until the afternoon, so we have the whole morning to put our minds together.   Mycroft’s, too.  He did a good job thinking of a plan to start this whole business and get Mrs. Hudson actively on our side, so he might be able to see a solution to this, too.”

      “That he was able to craft one marginally-successful plan was enough of a miracle that the expectation of another borders on insanity.”

      “Your brother is an intelligent man, Sherlock.”

      “My brother is an artist.  Intelligence is anathema to that breed.”

      “One day, Mycroft is going to snap and make you pay for all those remarks.  Don’t expect me to rescue you, either.  I’m just going to watch and make notes on his technique.”

      “Notice that I am failing to tremble in fear.”

      “Alright, but you remember this when you’re crying for me to save you from Mycroft.”

      “Beyond the sullying of my clothing with paint smudges, I believe I would emerge victorious from our fictitious altercation.”

      “Well, we’ll find out one day, most likely.  However, that day is not today, so let’s go to sleep and maybe you’ll get lucky tomorrow.”

      “Are you going to continue to refuse to let go of your ridiculous demand for sleep?”

      “Yes, I am going to continue to cling to my ridiculous demand with both fists and teeth, if need be.”

      “Boring.”

      “You can always go home and haunt Greg’s flat, instead.”

Sherlock scowled and reached around to pull John closer to him, keeping a pout on his lips that John thought any petulant toddler would covet.

      “No.”

      “Alright, then.  One good night’s sleep and, I promise, we’ll leap right back to this discussion in the morning.”

      “Very well.  But be very aware that it is my intention to see Mrs. Hudson is not left destitute by the outcome of this initiative.”

      “I am officially very aware of that and it’s going to be a priority for me, too.  Now, lie down and close those lovely eyes of yours so the sandman will pay you a visit.”

      “My eyes are lovely?”

      “Yes, they are very lovely.”

      “You do know that the existence of the sandman is a foolish and wholly unsubstantiated myth.”

      “I do know that.”

      “What is the likelihood of your purchasing a larger bed for this accursed flat?”

      “Zero.  Besides, you’re going to be moving soon, in any case, so you can have a larger bed.”

      “A lice-ridden bit of prison cast-off furniture, I’m certain.”

      “Well, that’ll be nice so you’ll already be used to it when they lock you up for your murder plan.”

      “Not this again. _I_ am not going to commit the murder, for my time is valuable and slated for more useful things.”

      “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

      “I am not tired.”

John dragged the pillow from under his head and, after deciding not to use it to suffocate Sherlock, placed it over his own head and pretended to be a weasel in its cozy burrow.  Sherlock was the most amazing man he’d ever met, but if he didn’t kill him one day, it would _truly_ be a miracle…

__________

      “Ah, a scenario that is most troubling.”

John and Sherlock sat in Mycroft and Lestrade’s bedroom, having outlined the flaw they had found with their plan and were happy to see the artist was as disturbed by the new perspective as were they.

      “We must find a solution quickly.  Though, in truth, with the sluggardly actions of the police it could be a decade or more before this situation finds any resolution.”

      “That is highly uncharitable of you, Sherlock.  Gregory assures me that the resources devoted to this particular case are substantial and they hope to bring the matter to a close in a very acceptable timeframe.”

      “Have they factored in his presence now added to the pile?  The additional inertia will not promote swifter action.  Physics has decided that for us already.”

      “Gregory’s assistance has earned him, do not forget, the position for which he has hoped, so I would say their view is that his thrust has handily accelerated the progress of the case.  Dear Sir Isaac would, undoubtedly, support my usurpation of his beloved laws of motion for, in this case, they are aptly applied, unlike for your childish aspersions.”

      “Do not pretend to argue science with me for you shall only humiliate yourself.”

      “ANYWAY… can we turn back to the task at hand and save the brotherly squabbling for another time?”

      “Yes, John, thank you.  A very good idea.  I believe our first move should be to discuss the matter with Mrs. Hudson.  I am certain it will distress her; however, she would have a better idea of what and, as importantly, where are the family assets.  I do not recall, either, her ever mentioning a pension forming part of their financial situation. I am very worried that once her odious husband is otherwise occupied, there will be no reliable source of income for her to access.  Yes, it is good you thought of this.  In truth… she did briefly express this worry, however, I was rather focused on securing her cooperation than hearing her objections and that is not to my credit, though I did promise her our fullest support in any manner necessary and I will make good that promise regardless of what is required.”

      “I will donate my sofa to Mrs. Hudson in the event it becomes necessary, though John’s bed is a poor and rather noisy substitute.”

John made a +1 in Sherlock’s ‘being an arse’ ledger.  He would collect, with interest, at his earliest opportunity.

      “That is good of you, brother, but let us not get ahead of ourselves.  A trip to Baker Street would be a difficult one for me; however, perhaps we might invite Mrs. Hudson to visit here, again.  She did enjoy our last bit of time together, once the unpleasant portion of the conversation had been hurdled.”

      “No.  John and I will visit her and formulate a plan based on the information she provides.”

      “I think not. I shall invite her to visit, so that I may better assess the situation and weigh our options.”

      “You are an artist, not a strategist.”

      “You are a scientist, not a tactician.”

John wondered if he should just go and make a cup of tea, because this could be a very long wait and Holmes bickering was always suffered more easily with tea.

      “Your knowledge of the world and its complexities is woefully lacking, Sherlock.”

      “Your knowledge of the world beyond your paintbrush is woefully pitiful, Mycroft.”

      “HOW about we compromise.  Sherlock and I can collect Mrs. Hudson and have some time alone with her, then bring her here for a little more conversation and you can ask what you’d like and hear what we’ve already learned.  Sound good?”

      “No.”

      “Ridiculous.”

Well, he tried.

      “Alright, then, I’ll be in the kitchen if you two need me.”

      “Oh, might I bother you for a spot of tea?”

      “I, also, require tea as well as the biscuits Lestrade tries to hide for Mycroft’s exclusive use, which is insulting, as well as poorly accomplished.  I found them after only ten minutes of investigation.”

Even his escape attempt had failed.  This day was certainly not one to play the lottery.

      “Fine, tea all around.  Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

Sherlock had an amazingly pithy retort ready to pronounce and scowled mightily when John didn’t stay long enough to hear it.

      “Rude.”

      “Yet, still at your side and happy to be there, brother dear, so tread lightly.  I did mean to ask, how did you enjoy your night?”

      “That is none of your business.”

“True.”

      “It was quite restful.”

      “Ah, my business has shifted in these past milliseconds.”

      “I simply wish to preempt any more of your nosiness.”

And, Mycroft knew well, delve into the topic more fully, in his own labyrinthine manner.

      “Very well.  As long as you are content, I shall not pry further.”

      “John’s bed is small.”

Except, prying seemed to be the desired course of action.

      “As was ours.”

      “But, it did not host two adult bodies.  At least… not often.”

      “Neither will John’s terribly often.  Unless… 

Ah hah…

“…are you hoping for a more regular schedule of overnight visits?”

      “That is none of your business.”

      “My, I see a truly astonishing variation in commerce.  I had no idea I was such a diverse entrepreneur.”

      “John and my overnight visits do not concern you in the slightest.”

Though the slight pinking of his brother’s cheeks told Mycroft that they were concerning Sherlock _very_ highly.  And, from the lack of worry or fear in his brother’s features and posture, that concern was of a very interesting and welcome nature to a curious older brother.

      “No, no they do not.  However… should you wish to make them my concern, from a conversational standpoint, of course, I would be more than happy to listen.”

      “There is nothing to discuss.”

      “Then we shall sit in silence until John returns with our refreshment.”

      “He does prepare acceptable tea.”

      “That he does.”

      “And… he…”

      “Yes?”

      “Does not drool as copiously as I have attempted to convince him.”

      “I see.  Yes, that _is_ fortunate.”

      “He is, also… patient.”

Oh, so his brother’s mind was taking _quite_ the interesting turn this morning.

      “That he is.  A very admirable and respectable trait.”

Mycroft watched Sherlock begin to pace and let his mind wander a moment until his brother coalesced his thoughts into something articulable.

      “Is there a limit?”

      “To patience?  I would say there is, however, where that limit lies depends on the nature of the situation and the person involved.  I believe that John is a very patient man for the situation we are politely failing to name and you need not fear on that score.”

      “Even…”

      “Sherlock?”

Sherlock dropped onto the bed and Mycroft held back the yelp of pain from his cautiously-healing ribs.

      “Can patience be strained if…”

      “Please do not hesitate, brother dear.  I _am_ anxious to help you if I can.”

The student turned his head slightly to inspect his brother’s features and verify his claim.  Fortunately, for them both, Mycroft was being completely honest.

      “I would like to explore a more… personal relationship with John, but I do not know…”

      “How far you would like your initial explorations to take you?”

      “That is as good a way to express it as any.”

      “And you worry that he will become frustrated by your tentativeness and need, at times, to halt your intimacy when you become uncomfortable, though he is desirous of continuing further.”

      “As you say.”

      “Then I pronounce you both perceptive and considerate.  However, I honestly believe this is a conversation you should have with John.  He has been very agreeable to discussing that aspect of your relationship and I am confident that will continue, to both your benefit.  Talk to him, Sherlock.  You shall not be disappointed and will spare yourself later a greater amount of discomfort.”

Sherlock didn’t notice Mycroft’s glance towards the bedroom door which had been cracked open slightly and left that way when John overheard the nature of the brothers’ discussion.

      “I would ask you, though… are you certain you are prepared to broach a more private relationship with John?  There is no shame in answering yes or no, as long as it is a truthful response.”

      “Then no… I am not certain.  However, I harbor doubts that I _ever_ shall be completely certain.  I shall not know until I begin and… I do not want John to suffer my inability to do what any other man could do easily and naturally, if I may not be able to follow through with my intentions.”

      “Any other man?  Good heavens, Sherlock… do not compare yourself to anyone else for you are not them and they are not the one for whom John cares.  I understand your uncertainty and applaud it, actually, for it demonstrates self-awareness; therefore, again, my best advice is to talk, regularly, to your… partner... for it will make things easier for you both.  Baring one’s soul is not our strength, as I am well aware, but John and Gregory have demonstrated repeatedly that their affection and regard will not waver as we stammer and misspeak and make countless aborted starts before finally stating plainly what is on our minds.  Where we falter, they excel, which is partially why we love them so.”

That Sherlock did not scoff and protest, loudly, at the last statement spoke volumes and Mycroft hoped dearly that John had learned enough about his brother to recognize that fact.

      “I will try.”

      “That is all anyone will ask of you, Sherlock.  Now, John should be arriving with the tea soon, so take a moment and reflect upon how lucky you are that we are having this conversation, at all.  He is a good man, brother, and I am happier for you than I can express.  And I promise you that we shall find a new flat that permits you and John that privacy you require as you move forward in what I know will be a very special association.”

It was very, very rare for Mycroft to see a flicker of gratitude in his brother’s eyes and his heart swelled near to exploding watching it begin to glow brightly.  Now, it was John’s turn to nudge Sherlock in the direction his brother desperately wanted to go, but was struggling to find the courage to do so.  Oh well, nothing good ever came easy…

      “Ah good, you’re both still alive.”

John decided it was a good moment to step into the bedroom and made every effort possible to keep any hint insider knowledge off of his face as he handed Sherlock his tea.  Not that he’d ever admit it, not in a hundred years, but he _had_ begun to wonder if there was something wrong with _him_ since Sherlock didn’t seem eager to move their physical relationship forward even a tiny baby step.  Now, at least, he had some reassurance on that score and simply had to wait and be supportive while his… well, partner wasn’t the worst possible term… felt comfortable enough to make a move.

      “And, you’d better enjoy that quickly, Sherlock, because we have to be at Mrs. Hudson’s flat in half an hour to take her to lunch.  Then, we’re going to bring her back here for a visit with Mycroft, who’ll we get comfortable on the sofa before we leave.  I’ll escort her home on my way to work and then you two can compare notes and come up with whatever fiendish plan you feel is going to be helpful.  So, come on.  Time to get your coat.”

Mycroft and Sherlock stared at the doctor who grinned back at them smugly, until Sherlock huffed a ‘oh dear lord, why me?’ huff, set down his half-empty cup and stormed out the door, leaving John to help the tut-tutting Mycroft out of bed and carry the mountain of cushions and pillows into the sitting room.

      “This is a very rogue action, Doctor Watson.  I am most impressed.”

      “Thanks.  Figured you’d be arguing all day if someone didn’t step in.”

      “Wise, very wise.  And it gave Sherlock and I quite the opportunity to discuss some additional pressing business.”

There was a look people gave you when you were well and truly found out and John recognized it easily in Mycroft’s face.  Oh well, at least it appeared he had an ally in the great love life saga…

      “Good, glad I could help.  Now, will you be alright for a couple of hours?”

      “I shall, and I do have your mobile number should a situation arise.”

      “Then we’re off.  Sherlock looks like he’s about ready to kick the door down, anyway, so why tempt fate?  We’ll see you later and bring back something so Sherlock doesn’t have to prepare anything for you.  I think that would kill him.”

      “There really is no doubt.”

__________

      “Oh, look at you two.  You make such a handsome couple.”

John beamed brightly, just as much at Sherlock’s embarrassment as his own pleasure in hearing that for the thousandth time today.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  And, is that a new dress?”

      “Isn’t it lovely?  It was ever so cheap, but what does that matter when something catches your eye?”

John smiled at Sherlock, hoping to encourage him into the conversation, but the student’s repertoire for small talk was precisely nil and snorted loudly in response.

      “Nothing matters at all, once your head’s been turned.  Now, Sherlock and I want to hear all your news.”

Sherlock snorted again and John had to admit Mycroft had a point.  You want a nice old lady to be comfortable and happy so she’s got some good mood to fall back on when you talk about uglier things?  Ask for the news and gossip first.  Not a bit of tactical ability in that tall, gorgeous body of his… fortunately, Mrs. Hudson didn’t pay him any mind and spent the next hour regaling them with the neighborhood gossip between bites of lunch.

As the server was clearing away the plates and delivering coffee, John braced himself for the second part of their conversation, but had his preparations punctured by Mrs. Hudson’s squeak and scramble for her handbag, which was hanging off the back of her chair.

      “I almost forgot!  I was having such a lovely time, I nearly forgot I had something for you boys and Mycroft’s young man.  He’s such a dear… visits quite a bit, even now they have him working the detective side of things.  Helped Mrs. Turner move her dining room table just this week, actually.  Such a helpful thing he is.  Now… oh yes, here it is.”

Mrs. Hudson slid a medium-sized envelope towards John, who was completely unsurprised when it was intercepted by Sherlock and immediately ripped open for inspection.

      “This is a list of names.”

      “Yes!  I’ve been doing a little snooping and maybe keeping an open ear when he’s on the telephone… I thought these might help.”

      “I recognize a few from Lestrade’s files, but many are new, so I suspect the dullwits have yet to make these connections.  I will ensure this information is acted upon in the swiftest possible fashion.”

It was Mrs. Hudson’s turn to beam with pride and John gave his partner a small squeeze on the thigh as a thank you for putting that smile on his former landlady’s face.

      “And, now, John and I wish to discuss your financial stability once your husband has met his just fate at the hands of the law, though they might have to grope a bit and meander blindly to finally enact his well-deserved justice.”

John groaned softly and dreaded looking at Mrs. Hudson, whose smile would be a thing of the past, but found, when he did, that she seemed just as joyful as before.

      “Oh, aren’t you two the most wonderful boys.  I admit that was worrying me quite a bit and it still does, but I suppose I’ll just have to find a job like everyone else.  I’ll probably have to sell my house, which _is_ mine, actually, it belonged to my aunt, and find something small just for me, but I can do it.  Your brother and I had a long chat about that and I realized that if he can keep going after all the horrid things that happened to him, so can I.  And, who knows, I might find some adventure along the way.  I admit that doing my little bit of spying has been a tremendous amount of fun, so I refuse to think my life is going to be over just because I’ll be on my own.  It won’t.  It’s going to be _better_.”

Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t notice the gleam of admiration in Sherlock’s eyes, but John did and he knew that if anyone ever said the student was indifferent to the people around him, they were completely wrong.  He may not show it and he may not extend his affection to many, but Sherlock did care about people and that was one of the many reasons that John… well, that wasn’t going to be a conversation which would arrive soon, but Mycroft’s probings had certainly netted him some very interesting information on the status of Sherlock’s feelings.  Feelings that he, himself, was just learning to understand and accept.

      “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Hudson.  Good for you looking forward to a fresh start.  Maybe we can make that fresh start a little more comfortable, though, yes?  Do you know what funds you’ll have access to in the future?”

      “Well, I know I can draw from the household account for the groceries and such.  But there’s generally only enough in there for the normal month’s expenses.  Like I said, the house is mine and it will sell for a very pretty penny, maybe, to buy something in the country.  I really don’t _want_ to live in the country, but London is so expensive!”

      “Then John and I will ensure you _remain_ in London.  Mycroft will want to stick his ample nose into our efforts, but he is easy to ignore since a brisk walk of five seconds will leave him so far behind as to be completely beyond earshot.”

      “Do you really think it’s possible, Sherlock?  It would be so lovely if I could stay.”

      “I have full intentions of making that happen and John supports the idea, as well.”

Though how he planned to accomplish that, Sherlock had no idea, but details, even at the best of times, were tedious and best left to others to tend to…

__________

With Mrs. Hudson in Mycroft’s grim clutches and John’s less-grim ones, Sherlock excused himself to get water and continued out the flat, making his way towards Lestrade’s station and stalking the halls until he found the nearly-former PC in the men’s lavatory.

      “I’m not safe anywhere, am I?”

      “If you believe that I am enjoying standing here while you hold your penis and urinate, then you are truly as feebleminded as the rest of the drones in this hive.”

      “Well, they say hell is other people, so that explains how I feel when you’re around.  Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

      “When you have washed your hands, I will hand you a list of names that you will investigate pursuant to our case.  I obtained them today from Mrs. Hudson.”

That, at least, got Lestrade’s attention, though he made sure he took as long as necessary to complete his current task before taking the paper.  Sherlock’s contempt for natural biology was just a joy to behold…

      “Hmmmm… I recognize some of these…”

      “I would hope so, since they are in your files.  The others, though, are not and require investigating.”

      “How’d she get them?”

      “Through covert actions.”

      “Oh, nice to hear her nephew, James Bond, paid a visit to teach her a few tricks.”

      “The method of their acquisition is immaterial.  Focus on the important aspects of the case!”

      “I am!  For your information, a few of these I recognize _aren’t_ in the files.  That one’s a solicitor and these two I believe I’ve seen in the newspaper.  I think they’re in government.  Not very high up, but I’m sure that’s what they’re about.  So, yes, this is important.  Tell Mrs. Hudson I said thank you.”

      “You can tell her when you next visit and move her furniture.  That seems to be your primary use to the elderly women of London.”

      “At least I _have_ a use!  And have you ever tried shifting one of those ancient fuck-all heavy tables?  Or a piano?  Mrs. Hudson may lend me out to her friends, but I’d rather that than they try and do it themselves and break a hip.”

      “You do realize Mrs. Hudson is not a crone, do you not?”

      “She’s older than me and that’s all that counts.  You help people older than you.  It’s polite.”

      “I’m going to tell her you said she is old and that will likely remove all plates of biscuits from your future visits.”

      “I’ll push my fist down your throat and, then, you’ll be in the no-biscuits boat with me, but for a far more painful reason.”

      “Barbarism… the definitive sign of a weak mind.”

      “Is there a magic word I can say to make you disappear?”

      “Since magic words typically consist of more than a single syllable, then no.  I don’t think you _can_ say it.”

      “Goodbye, Sherlock.  You’ve done very good work, but this conversation has me wanting to do more than eliminate a little liquid, so unless you want to talk with me through the stall door…”

      “Everything about you is base and vulgar.”

      “Which pleases your brother greatly.”

      “Artists are known for their taste for the lowborn classes.”

      “Then thank you mum and dad for being working people.  Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

Sherlock scowled fiercely and started to leave, only to pause and look back at Lestrade.

      “And our other case?”

“Case?  _Oh…_   Yes, actually, there _is_ news on that one.  I have official approval to dig deeper into that bastard’s life, so I have lines out to see what I can hook.”

      “How did you obtain that?”

      “My inspector found out I was digging and confronted me.  I had to explain why I was doing it and that involved telling him Mycroft’s story.  He agrees that animal is a danger and I’m authorized to pry a little further to see if we can find a reason to make him miserable.  Whatever you do, Sherlock, please don’t tell Mycroft I had to talk about this.  You know what it would do to him if he thought people were learning his business.”

It would cripple his brother; of that, Sherlock had not a shred of doubt.

      “I will not.  Have you made any progress?”

      “Maybe.  I have the name of someone who worked for him that quit suddenly.  By phone.  And left on holiday for a week the day they quit.  If anything sounds suspicious, that certainly does.  I just have to contact them and see what they have to say.  And if they’re willing to say it in court.”

      “I see.  If you require any assistance, you will notify me immediately.”

      “I will, Sherlock.  I promise you, I will.”

The student simply nodded and left quietly, which was a relief for Lestrade who truly didn’t want to delve into the subject any further.  Even talking about trying to bring Mycroft’s assailant to justice made him sick to his stomach, because it churned up mental images and feelings that he still could not successfully cope with.  Maybe the inspector was right… maybe he should take a little time to talk to someone who could help him clear his brain.  Help him lose the rage that rose up every time he thought of his artist in that filthy basement.  As it stood, if he ever drew together enough threads to sew into an actual case, someone else would have to make the arrest.  There was little chance he’d get the suspect into custody without a charge of police brutality on his record and that was not a victory he was going to let that arse have.  He and his Mycroft were going to live happy and successful lives while that pitiful excuse for a human rotted in a jail cell.  That was going to be their ultimate revenge and that revenge was going to the sweetest he could imagine.

__________

      “You look tired, love.  Long day?”

Mycroft smiled at Lestrade from the sofa, happy that Sherlock had sped towards his laboratory the moment his partner walked through the door.

      “Not precisely.  For my part, I relaxed here, indulging in the tranquil atmosphere of a quiet home and a good book while Sherlock and John escorted Mrs. Hudson to lunch.  Then, I hosted my landlady in said home for several hours where we enjoyed quite the spirited conversation.  She is most excited that Sherlock raced to you her information and has high hopes it will lead to gladdening things.”

Lestrade loosened his tie and took a beer from the kitchen before joining Mycroft on the sofa, carefully lifting his lover’s legs and sliding underneath them so he could be the artist’s footrest.

      “I think it will.  I showed that list to a few people and we immediately went into a meeting with the inspector who is overseeing our part of the investigation.  It very well could be that we pulled together a few very important pieces of the puzzle and we’ve got men working all night tonight pulling files and making calls.  It’s possible I get ordered back in, but I’ve got my fingers crossed that I can enjoy a relaxing night with the most handsome man on Earth, instead.”

      “A wish I certainly share.  However, do you have an idea of the timeline for the closing of your net?”

      “No, but if I had to make a guess, I’d say it could be within weeks.  They were fairly far along when I joined the investigation and things have taken good turns since then.  Sherlock’s been a tremendous help… I almost hope he’d take an interest in police work, because we could certainly use someone like him, but he got a greater destiny than that, I think.  Lad with talents like his is going to go far in this world.”

      “Sherlock’s path will find him someday and, if it happens to intersect with yours, I shall be delighted.  You have done marvelous things with my brother, Gregory.  He is certainly not the boy I remember and I am in ecstasy over the fact.  And, you shall be heartened to know, he is now committed to ensuring that Mrs. Hudson is not forced to leave London after her husband is prosecuted.  He worries greatly about her lack of tangible means once the brute’s income withers and dies on the vine.”

      “Yeah, that occurred to me, too.  She’s welcome to stay with us while she sorts things out, of course.  Did you tell her that?”

      “In this conversation and in previous ones.  But, it is our hope that we can see Mrs. Hudson safe in Baker Street, where she is happy and near her friends.”

      “ _We_ , huh?  Was my Mycroft plotting and scheming this afternoon, as part of his spirited conversation?”

      “Perhaps.  Sherlock and John are admirably capable, however, they lack that certain _je ne sais quois_ that a more experienced mind can bring to a problem.”

      “And a more creative one, too.  And sexy.  You’ve got a sexy mind, Mycroft, and I hope I’ve already told you that today or I’m getting sloppy and that’s not good.”

      “You have lavished upon me a wealth of flattery and my heart is as buoyant as a balloon because of it.”

      “And, later, we can see how much inflation something besides your heart will give us.”

Mycroft gave his lover a smile he knew curled the PC’s toes in a highly pleasurable fashion.

      “Gregory Lestrade, you are positively lecherous.”

      “Thank you!”

      “You are most welcome.  And, I suspect, that you will receive a very encouraging performance.”

      “Did someone I know experiment a bit while I was out?”

      “Does that excite you?”

      “Mind if we postpone dinner for awhile?”

      “Oh, not at all.  We have the evening to ourselves and I would enjoy nothing more than experiencing it in a myriad of pleasurable ways.”

      “That creative mind of yours is a true godsend, love.”

      “Have we any of that delectable honey remaining in the cupboard?”

      “I believe we do.  And if I start now, it’ll be nice and warm by the time we get you settled in the bedroom.”

      “Then, by all means, do start.”

Lestrade quickly, but carefully, wriggled out from beneath Mycroft’s legs and dashed to the kitchen to get their evening started, with Mycroft feeling no shame gazing at his bottom as he moved away.  Such a glorious man and one who’s power to arouse was beyond compare.  Fortunately, they _would_ have the night to themselves as Sherlock’s experiments were lengthy ones.   Then, of course, his brother had some supplies to gather.  If they had mere weeks to prepare their plan, it was good they were starting now.  Coaching their dear Doctor Watson could easily take a fortnight on its own…


	40. Chapter 40

      “I don’t know.”

      “An estimate will do.”

      “I don’t have one.”

      “Nonsense.  Is this some form of ridiculous secrecy issue?”

      “Maybe.”

      “Gregory…”

      “Or maybe I just don’t know!”

      “You must provide me with, at minimum, a timeline within a 20% variance from the reality of the final event.”

      “What does that mean?  Seriously, what are you trying to tell me because it’s all a bunch of jumbly syllables that are looking down their noses at me and it’s making my breakfast go off.”

Mycroft huffed loudly and looked across the kitchen table at his lover, who was stirring around the food on his plate, hoping, apparently, for a combination of materials to make the most satisfactory bite.  The past two weeks had been a marvel, in terms of his independence and ability to more fully interact with the family from somewhere other than his bed, but it had also been frustrating, in terms of the initiatives he was seeking to set in motion.

      “Gregory, in order to properly implement my agenda, I require a timeframe in which to schedule certain select events.”

      “Ok, I understood that a little better, but I’m not exactly happy I did.  You, Sherlock and John have been huddling up a lot lately, giving me the sneaky eye, and if all that’s part of what your agenda is about, I’m officially nervous.  And by officially, I mean the warrant card type of official, so you understand my concern.”

      “Pish tosh.  As if we would undertake a law-breaking path.”

      “ _Are_ you planning on breaking the law?”

      “Breaking?”

      “Yes.”

      “…………………….”

      “Will you please answer me?”

      “I am thinking.  I am not entirely certain I know the relevant engineering tolerances for breaking a law, so I am attempting to provide a suitable estimate, unlike _you_ who refuse to be of any assistance with my query.”

Well, this was not going well.  Arrests were on the horizon and he’d probably be the one who had to make them.  Luckily, he still had the phone number of Sherlock’s solicitor in his wallet.

      “Mycroft… I love you, but I will happily make you wear this lovely breakfast on your head if you don’t make me _not_ want to preemptively arrest you.”

Not that it was much of a threat, and he knew that Mycroft was very well aware of the fact.  He’d woken alone in bed and had felt his heart nearly explode with happiness when he smelled cooking in the kitchen, since Sherlock and John had stayed at John’s flat the night before.  And, sure enough, there was his artist, slowly and carefully making breakfast for the first time since his… accident.  Mycroft was doing so well, so very, very well.  He was still struggling with a lot of physical issues and no mention would be made of his mental and emotional ones, but he _was_ making progress.  This nice meal and sharing of the table, albeit with a cushion under his bottom, was leaps and bounds beyond what he’d been able to do even a week ago. 

      “I don’t think the color of our repast would complement my complexion very successfully.”

      “Then tell me your little secret and we won’t have an aesthetic crisis.”

      “Oh very good.  I find myself admiring you erudition more and more each day.”

      “I’ll even make you another cup of tea.”

      “Oh… now you are, as they say, bringing out the big guns.”

      “No, I did that last night, if you remember correctly.”

As both men giggled like teenagers, Lestrade rose from the table and started the kettle for more tea for his artist and set more coffee brewing for himself.

      “My memory is flawless, as you well know.  Especially for things that are especially pleasing.”

And pleasing was the smallest and meanest description of their lovemaking.  His Gregory had been so patient, so loving and devoted… it had been an utter joy to treat his partner more in the manner he deserved.  And, since his own anatomy was awakening very nicely, their passions were absolutely a shared thing, something which delighted them both.  That their delight was careful, cautious, slow and gentle in no manner diminished its intensity.

      “Flatterer.  Now, since I’m making you your tea and… see… clearing away your plate, how about rewarding me with a little information?”

Another source of intense delight, at least for Lestrade.  Though his artist still was not nearly eating what he should, he was permitting three tiny meals into his body every day and could be coaxed to bolster his calorie intake with the little treats the PC had learned tickled Mycroft’s fancy.  Nobody wanted to say anything, for fear of the dreaded jinx, but Mycroft didn’t look quite as gaunt and drawn and may, _may_ , have gained a pound or two

“In truth, it is nothing about which you are not unaware.  Sherlock, John and I have plans to ensure Mrs. Hudson is able to continue living in Baker Street.”

“And, those plans are?”

      “Developing.”

      “Oh god…”

      “Gregory, I do promise that if, for some reason, we are found out, it will in no manner connect to you.  In fact, if it eases your worry, Sherlock, John and I have already signed a statement that absolves you of all culpability for our nefariousness.  Not that I admitting to such, of course, since we are speaking in a purely hypothetical sense.”

      “You have to claim hypotheticalness at the start or it doesn’t count, so now I have proof I’ll be visiting my lover in prison, bribing the lads for a little private time to scratch my itches.  Wonderful.”

      “Do they require the inmates wear the horrid striped uniforms I have seen in films?  I would look ghastly in them.”

Lestrade made a show of weeping into his eggs and Mycroft reached over to pat his head, wincing at the ache in his ribs.  They _were_ getting better, but it was slow going.

      “Put such matters out of your mind, my dear, and you shall quickly regain your dazzling smile.  In fact, let us shift the topic of conversation to a more jubilant topic.  When shall you know for certain about the status of your application?”

Well, that was _certainly_ a more jubilant topic.  Lestrade had kept his eyes peeled for notice of the open detective’s position and as soon as it was posted, leapt into the paperwork to formally apply.  Now, it was the waiting, which was misery, but his inspector had made an off-hand comment about how his desk needed a picture or two, and if that wasn’t an indication of permanence, nothing was.

      “In the next few days, I imagine.  I think they have to post the position for a certain amount of time, but when that’s over, they can give someone the job.  And that someone _will_ be me.”

      “Such confidence.  I am highly titillated.”

      “That’s what I like to hear.  And I still want that sketch for my desk.”

      “And I still refuse.”

      “Draw me a picture of you!”

      “I believe not.”

      “I believe so.  I want one of you… oh!  Just like I first met you, all smiles and sitting at your easel.”

      “And, again, the word ‘ghastly’ springs to mind.”

      “You’re confusing ghastly with gorgeous.  Are you sure you’re awake?”

      “Very sure, actually.  I can hear the sound of the kettle most clearly.”

      “Oops.  Got a bit distracted by thinking of the first day we met.  The day you’re going to draw for me so I can put it on my desk and see it all the time.”

Asking Mycroft for a photo would really have caused an argument, so Lestrade hadn’t bothered, at least not now.  In the future, when his artist felt better, he’d broach the topic, because he’d adore a photo of his lover smiling at him every day.  Until then, and afterwards, a drawing would do very nicely.

      “Gregory, you shall not offend your eyes and those of your colleagues by placing my visage in clear view.”

Lestrade made a very rude noise and handed Mycroft his tea, reaching back for his coffee, which he’d forgotten about also.

      “I’ll have John check you for brain damage.  Your visage is a gift to the world and anyone who gets to look at it is a fortunate individual.  So I expect my sketch as soon as possible.  Tomorrow, preferably, before I leave in the morning.  We can even use part of the day today for you to draw it.”

      “Most certainly not.  I refuse to waste our precious free time with such a nonsensical pursuit.”

      “Our gallery visit isn’t nonsensical, though, is it?”

      “Perish the thought!  Nor is our retail adventure for your new clothing.”

Peruse a gallery that had an exhibition Mycroft wanted to see and then wander through London’s finest clothes for just-this-side-of-financially-solvent working men emporiums.  This was going to be a great day!  And with money set aside so they could take a taxi or two for his artist’s comfort, it should go well.  Well, with the extra help of Mycroft’s brace and the pain medication that he’d carry in his pocket.  His lover had been making do and making do very well with a lower dose, but still needed some extra help if he overexerted.

      “I was also thinking, love, about a trip to the art supply shop.  You’re getting low on a few things, I noticed.”

Mycroft hid his smile, though he did a very poor job of it and Lestrade laughed at the failure.

      “Perhaps one or two minor items require replenishment.”

      “And, today, you can do it yourself and not rely on me and Sherlock to cock it all up and bring you the wrong thing.”

      “Gregory Lestrade!  You are very well aware that only occurred a single time and I easily found use of the rather interesting shade of yellow you provided to me.”

      “And only you could do that!  It looked like bile in the tube, but what you did with it… my Mycroft is magic.  I do believe that, you know.  Your talent can’t be anything other than magic, it’s so amazing.”

      “Now it is you who are the flatterer, my dear.”

      “And what we buy at today will just prove that the flattery is well-deserved.  Oh!  I know!  We’ll find a special pencil you can use to make my drawing!”

      “Gregory…”

      “This day keeps getting better!  I’ll get our coats.”

Mycroft felt the laughter bubble up and decided there was no use trying to keep it penned in.  His partner was an incomparable man.  A man who, in all likelihood, _was_ going to find a sketch waiting for him to bring to work in the morning…

__________

Sherlock rarely slept, but when he did, he slept like the dead and John considered himself an expert on the subject, having seen more than a few dead bodies in his life.  It was nice when it happened, too.  He’d spent enough time studying Sherlock’s face to recognize even the subtle differences and the peace that settled on the student’s features when he slept wasn’t exactly subtle.  The only time John saw that level of serenity on Sherlock’s face was… well, was when Sherlock was looking at him.  And that meant something to him.  It meant a lot, actually.

      “Why are you watching me?”

The dead awaken and the circus of the damned begins a new performance.

      “There was a spider as big as my fist right on your face.”

      “That is the most ridiculous lie I have ever heard and I have heard a veritable bounty living with Mycroft and Lestrade.”

      “Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard more ridiculous ones than that.  Think about it awhile and report back to me.”

      “Instead, I will delete your tomfoolery from my mind and begin again.  Why are you watching me?”

      “Because you’re the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.”

      “Oh…”

Sherlock seemed confused by the statement and then thoughtful in a way John couldn’t interpret.  But, that wasn’t exactly anything new in their relationship.

      “So, now that we’ve got that settled… urk!”

John found himself under his partner faster than he could breathe and started to respond in very pleasurable ways to Sherlock’s hotter-than-normal kisses and the way the student’s body was rubbing against his.  He hadn’t had a good morning as nice as this in… ever.

      “Well, this is a very nice good morning.”

      “Is it?”

      “Yes, it most certainly is.  Ooh…that was _especially_ nice.”

      “It was?”

      “Uh huh…”

      “What did I do?”

      “Ummm… this.”

John took a deep breath and put his hands on Sherlock’s hips, moving against him, keeping a very close eye on his partner for any sign of… anything.

      “Oh… yes, that _is_ quite nice, actually.”

Crossing his mental fingers very tightly, John decided to push on, at least a little.

      “You can… try something else that feels nice, if you’d like.”

Now, the look on Sherlock’s face wasn’t serene, it was hesitant, mixed with wary and slightly confused.

      “Such as?”

Well, in for a penny…

      “Something like this, maybe?”

John started moving his body so that his cock dragged against Sherlock’s through the fabric of their underpants, never breaking their gaze so he could catch the very first glimpse of unease in Sherlock’s eyes.  Which, unfortunately, came very quickly.  Well, it was lovely while it lasted.  Though stopping their explorations seemed to upset the student, also.

      “Why did you stop?”

Because you’re getting scared you idiot and I… like… you!

      “You asked for a demonstration and I gave you one.  You ready for breakfast?”

Sherlock scrutinized John with an intensity that had the doctor beginning to feel his own unease until Sherlock began to copy John’s motions, slowly, at first, then picking up speed and increasing the friction until John saw more than a little unease in his partner’s eyes.  Pulling Sherlock down for a kiss, John slowed the pace and felt the student’s body relax in his arms, which merited a very spirited mental pat on the back.

      “John, I…”

      “It’s ok, Sherlock.  That felt great.  Really, it did.”

      “But you…”

Sherlock nudged John’s diamond-cutter of an erection with his hip and the doctor lost his inner glee seeing the pain and regret in his partner’s eyes.

      “That’s not important, Sherlock.”

      “No, it is.  It is important to you; therefore, it is important to me.”

John sighed because he had an unsettling feeling that Sherlock would do something that would make him utterly miserable just so _he_ would be satisfied and that was not acceptable.  Not in the least.  Never.  However, now and again his brain actually came to his rescue.

      “Alright, then, I appreciate that.  So, why don’t you just sit back and let me take care of that little problem?”

 _This_ expression was pure confusion until Sherlock’s brain came to his rescue and John saw the light turn on in his eyes.

      “Yes.  Yes, that is a very good idea.  Yes.”

Sherlock sat back on his heels, straddling John’s legs and looked so anticipatory, that John couldn’t help but smile.  And feel quite a bit sexier than before.  A feeling that escalated to unimaginable heights when he took out his cock and gave it a long, slow stroke, savoring the profound effect on Sherlock who was beginning to bite his lower lip and squirm in a very delicious fashion.

      “I do this a lot, you know.”

      “You… you do?”

      “Uh huh…  I think about you when I do it, too.”

Oh my, could Sherlock be any more stunning than right now, with those pupil-black eyes and astonished arousal coloring his cheeks?

      “You… you think about me?”

      “Yes.  About how gorgeous you are, and how your voice sounds in my ear.”

And what it would be like if Sherlock was the one doing this.  With his hands or mouth, but that part wouldn’t be mentioned because his partner seemed to be enjoying himself and wasn’t darting off like a scared rabbit.  Plus, the sight of Sherlock’s pants, near to bursting and sporting a very nice wet stain, was its own source of visual stimulation…

      “Is… is that all?”

Oh, so his partner liked hearing his filthy fantasies…  A little more perhaps?  It had been a long time since he’d been so blisteringly _hot_ … seeing those eyes watching every movement of his fingers as he stroked himself and reached down further so he could rub his balls in that special way that made cock twitch in delight…

      “No.  I think about the feel of your body when it’s next to mine… when it’s pressing against or laying on me.  I imagine…”

      “Y…yes?…”

You, with that beautifully desperate look in your eyes…

      “Your hands on me… running across my skin.  Feeling your breath, hearing the sounds you’d make… oh fuck, I’m getting close…”

      “More, John… please…”

      “Tasting… tasting your mouth when you kiss me after I come…”

Sherlock’s soft, sharp gasp hit John’s ears and it was only a few more strokes of his hand before his orgasm tore through him with a brutal intensity, made all the more powerful from knowing Sherlock was watching.

      “That… that was fucking amazing.  Sherlock, you… oh.”

That small, wet stain on Sherlock’s pants wasn’t so small now and John’s smile spread wickedly across his face.  He’d made that fantastic creature come just by talking to him.

      “John… I’m… I’m…”

Reading the ‘I’m sorry’ clearly splashed across Sherlock’s face, John reached up to pull the student down into a kiss, secretly loving that his semen was being rubbed into Sherlock’s pale, smooth belly.

      “You’re what?  Breathtaking?  Unbelievably sexy?  Proud you gave me the best orgasm I can remember?”

Another long kiss, that balanced fire and tenderness so perfectly that John knew if they didn’t get out of bed soon, he’d be ready for their second round and he was not tempting spook-the-hell-out-of-Sherlock fate twice.  Even though that bastard was starting to wear his own tiny, wicked grin.

      “Really?”

      “Really.  Knowing you were watching me, drinking me in… skyrocketed the heat.  Something you shared, I think.”

It was hereby illegal for Sherlock to look that arrogantly shy.  How did he even do that?

      “Perhaps.”

Evil bastard.

      “But… it was satisfying for you?  You are not simply… exaggerating for my benefit?”

Now the arrogance was gone and Sherlock’s expression was so perfectly shy and uncertain that John knew if he didn’t… like… Sherlock before, he certainly did now.

      “No, I’m not.  This was _incredible_.  As long as it feels good and everyone’s happy, there aren’t any rules for this, you know?  No one path to take.  Well, I take that back.  There is _one_ rule.”

      “Oh.  What is it?”

      “Man on top has clean-up duty.”

      What… oh.  Is that me?”

      “Are you on top?”

      “I am now.”

      “Then, yes.”

      “I don’t tidy.”

      “You will this morning.”

      “Mycroft does the tidying.”

      “Mycroft is _not_ doing my tidying.”

      “You can do the tidying.”

      “When I’m on top, I will.”

Sherlock stared at John with a ferocity that was a little unsettling, then the tension broke and John watched Sherlock’s unruly mass of curls bob about as he hopped off of the bed and gave John a saucy smirk.

      “ _If_ you’re on top, you mean.”

Now it was Sherlock’s sexy, smug bum that John was watching as the student sashayed away to find a flannel.  What a phenomenal arse… and he was _not_ just talking about anatomy…

__________

      “This is unnecessary.”

      “No, it’s polite.  You didn’t want to eat at the restaurant, so if we’re bringing take-away back to your flat, then we have to bring enough for everyone.”

      “I fail to understand why.  If Mycroft and Lestrade want dinner, they are perfectly capable of obtaining it themselves.”

      “I’ll remember you said that when Greg decides to order that Italian you love so much while we watch a film and he only orders enough for him and Mycroft.”

      “That would be unfair and I would inform him of the fact.  Loudly.”

      “So, it’s alright for us to exclude them, but not for them to exclude us?”

      “Correct.”

      “Life in Sherlockland really is pleasant, isn’t it?”

      “Of course.  I would permit nothing less.”

John laughed and feeling very fortunate that Sherlock, at least, opened the door to the building and the flat, since juggling take-away bags and doorknobs wasn’t a strength of his.

      “Oh no, they are home.”

      “And greetings to you, too, brother dear.  I know it must seem odd to find Gregory and me in the home we share, but the world is a place of lucky happenstance.”

      “John, Mycroft is being insufferable.  He should not be allowed any food.”

      “Look at you keeping the serfs in Sherlockland in line like a good dictator.  I’m proud of you, I really am.  Puts a tear in my eye.  Greg, you want to say something and risk the wrath of His Majesty?”

Lestrade did and it was so filthy that both Mycroft and Sherlock looked sufficiently appalled to catch a case of the vapors. 

      “Well, there we have it. I’ll get the plates.  Sherlock, why don’t you huddle with your brother and hide from the nasty man.”

Sherlock scowled and hurled himself into his familiar chair near the sofa, glaring at Lestrade’s grinning face as if he was hoping to cause the PC’s head to explode with the power of his irritation.

      “Gregory, that was positively...”

      “Left you speechless, didn’t I?”

Of course, his beloved simply had to smile in such a manner that made this poor artist’s heart melt into a pool of contented and besotted bliss.  Cad.

      “Such is always the case when I gaze upon your masculine beauty.”

      “JOHN!”

      “Mycroft, stop upsetting your brother.  Greg, be someone other than yourself until we’re finished eating, at least.”

Sherlock’s smug look at John’s rebuke made the older pair share their own look, one that clearly said they agreed that Sherlock was the cutest infatuated man in London.

      “I shall do my best to comply, Doctor Watson.  Sherlock, do tell Gregory and I about your day.  I am certain it was filled with frivolity and the most entertaining of adventures.”

      “As opposed to yours which, without question, was the dreariest of affairs, likely resulting in several fatalities due to collateral damage from projectile boredom.”

      “Most untrue.  Gregory and I spent a highly agreeable day together.  A stimulating stroll through two galleries I had hoped to visit and a successful hour of securing Gregory new garments for his soon-to-be-official new position.”

      “As I said, boring.  John and I spent the day conducting vital research with a selection of excised organs and various inorganic acids.”

      “How delirious with glee you must have been, John.  Truly you have the entirety of my envy.”

John set a plate down in front of Sherlock first, to forestall a tantrum, then in front of Greg, to forestall any chance for a grab at Sherlock’s food, leading to a revisiting of the tantrum issue.

      “Honestly, we had a nice time.  Sherlock somehow got permission to use one of the empty rooms in the hospital basement for his experiments and I was able to catch up on paperwork in between helping him photograph the results of his tests.”

      “ _This_ time, John remembered his camera.”

      “I did _not_ forget the camera when we went to Mrs. Hudson’s flat; you didn’t tell me we needed it in the first place.”

      “Shifting the blame for your forgetfulness is not a sign of character, John.”

      “Being a bastard isn’t, either, Sherlock.”

      “For that traitorous slander, I shall confiscate your egg roll.”

      “For your traitorous slander, you get no fortune cookie.”

      “LESTRADE!”

The PC stopped mid-chew, set his plate down to make a rude gesture, and began eating again.

      “It appears John has found the reins to your harness, brother dear.”

      “Do not involve John and I in your deviant sexual roleplay, Mycroft.”

While Lestrade whinnied like a horse, happily receiving Mycroft’s swat on his arm, John plated something for him and, after a moment’s thought, decided on the portion size most likely to be completely consumed by the artist.  With meals having become a more communal event, he had unhappily noticed that Mycroft felt ashamed when he didn’t finish the food on his plate and everyone was there to witness it.  That was _not_ helpful for someone who was doing his very best to eat more, when it was still a difficult process for him.  Smaller portions made for a much happier patient and one who was more encouraged to keep trying to get well.

      “Now, now boys, let’s keep fetishes out of our tasty food.  For the moment.”

John handed Mycroft his plate and gave himself a silent congratulations as the artist smiled, seeing the small and light portion he received.

      “And, Mycroft, you know I have to ask… how’s the knee?”

      “It held valiantly through our stroll.  I admit that I was required to use slightly more pain medication than I have found satisfactory of late, but the new brace performed marvelously and with more comfort than the previous one.”

      “Good.  Your knee’s healing well, so it shouldn’t be too much longer before we can see how you fare without it while taking one of you and Greg’s neighborhood strolls.  With Sherlock and me following behind in case you’re left crippled and Greg needs help carrying you home.”

The rest of the health check would occur tomorrow.  What was working best for his patient was a fixed schedule of checks, so Mycroft could mentally prepare for the process of being examined.  It was still something the artist found disturbing, at times, though, through a conversation that neither he nor Greg enjoyed, the doctor knew and was happy to learn that this did not extend to the intimate time Mycroft shared with his partner.   It so easily could have gone another way…

      “I refuse to port Mycroft’s carcass through the streets of London.”

      “Your brotherly love, as always, salves my soul, dearest sibling.”

Sherlock’s rude noise actually earned him a thumbs up of approval from both John and Lestrade and, Sherlock’s resulting pleased smile, won one from Mycroft, in return.  It was seeing this, the marked and positive growth of his brother that made Mycroft wonder if the idea that everything happened for a reason had merit.  It was an utterly illogical and irrational concept, but if he had not made his painful and debilitating decision, they would not be here now as part of the most successful family he and Sherlock had ever known.  Perhaps it was simply a matter of using every experience as an opportunity.  Making the best of the situation, so to speak.  Regardless, the knowledge was doing its part to strip from him some of the shame of his actions and that was… a welcome thing.

      “Delightful.  May I assume we shall enjoy your and John’s company for the remainder of the evening?”

There was something in the ‘and you know why I am inquiring’ tone of Mycroft’s voice that put Lestrade on high alert.

      “Oh no… there will be no further scheming about whatever it is you three are scheming about.  Whatever it is, put it right out of your heads.  I want to enjoy my nice Chinese food, watch a little telly, have a beer or two and end it all with a long, sound sleep.  Notice that, in my list, there’s not one mention of running all of you in to spend the next few years of life in a prison cell.”

      “Your level of unfounded paranoia does not bode well for your advancement within the police ranks, Lestrade.  No, I stand corrected.  It _ensures_ you shall rise to the highest heights in the ranks, god save us all.”

      “None of that out of you, Sherlock.  I mean it.  You three have something in mind and there’s not a single chance it’s anything good, so please, just forget about it.  The investigation is going well and, while I’ll admit and _have_ admitted, you’ve been a great help with it, it’s for us to close the net so that we can get the convictions we need.”

      “Not that I’m admitting to anything, mind you, but what if we have something in mind that doesn’t impact your end of things?”

Lestrade glared at John, who was doing his best to look as innocent and sincere as possible, and took a large bite of his food to wash the sour flavor of suspicion out of his mouth.

      “Mycroft, if I ask you if John’s right, will you promise to answer me without your usual running me in a verbal circle?”

      “I shall attempt to be as linear as possible.”

      “Ok, then… is John right?”

      “Doctor Watson is absolutely correct.  You are becoming quite distressed over an issue that has no intention of interfering with your investigation.  It simply… coordinates with it.”

      “And you’re certain you’re staying on the good citizen’s side of the law?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “That’s not linear.”

      “Isn’t it?  My mistake.  You have my apologies.”

      “Sherlock, anything to add.”

      “Nothing at a level you would comprehend.”

Mycroft patted Lestrade’s leg and held aloft a juicy piece of pork for the PC to enjoy, along with the few moments of sauce licking from pale and agile fingers.

      “Now, be a peace, my dear, and let us continue to enjoy our feast.  You said you engaged in research pursuits today, brother.  Not related to your academic work, I believe…”

      “No, this was simply to satisfy a point of curiosity.”

The artist settled back and made himself as comfortable as possible before motioning Sherlock to continue on.  An evening of conversation was such a relaxing and rewarding thing.  And it gave him time to make a final study of John’s face for the work to come…

__________

      “I fail to see why I am being forced into slavery.”

      “Because Mycroft decided to push his medical check to tonight and that leaves me and you to do the tidying.”

      “Which means you, also, top.”

Sherlock’s grin as Lestrade shattered a plate in the sink was more than a little self-satisfied.

      “Ok.  Ok, fine.  Where did that come from?”

      “From the rule.”

      “Which rule?”

      “The rule that the one who tops must tidy.  I admit this is not the proper application, but it was amusing nonetheless.”

Rule.  Which didn’t exist.  But, _could_ exist if someone wanted someone else to do the wiping off.  Which meant there had to be some reason to warrant a wiping off.  Mycroft was going to faint.

      “And amusing it was.  Nicely done.  Oh, and I meant to ask… how is the flat search going?  Any luck finding something that might work for us?  I admit I haven’t had time to really put any effort into it, but I haven’t forgotten.”

And, if John and Sherlock were taking _steps_ , a bigger place with some private space for the duo was more important than ever.

      “This city is a cesspool.”

      “Sometimes.”

      “And outlandishly overpriced.”

      “All the time.”

      “Entirely lacking in proper accommodations for the deserving members of the populace.”

      “So, no success.”

      “If we were examples of the tawdry nouveau riche, we would have a bounty of choices.”

      “Sorry, nobody but plain, working people here.”

      “Mycroft is an artist and I am a genius.  The only representatives of the proletariat in the vicinity are you and, perhaps, John, though his profession is a lofty one, from a social perspective.”

      “Well, artists and geniuses have to live somewhere, too, and that’s going to be my priority when this case is over.”

      “Someone with my intellect should be given appropriate housing by the government in payment for my current and future contributions to humanity.”

      “You should write someone and complain.”

      “I shall have John attend to that.”

      “Attend to what?  And why is Greg leering at me?”

Greg stopped leering and decided that beer wasn’t going to be good enough for the rest of the evening’s conversations.  Especially the one he needed to have with his artist.

      “That’s just my ‘wind John up’ smile.  How’s Mycroft?”

      “Good!  I’m actually very happy with his progress.  I’m going to have him get a set of x-rays for those ribs just so I can get a better idea of how they’re going and I’d like for him to see an orthopedist to make certain I’m not missing anything for his knee, but… for those and his _other_ issues, he’s doing very well.”

Lestrade gave John a very relieved smile and the doctor was happy to see the small one that Sherlock tried to conceal brighten the student’s face.

      “Today tired him out a little, though, so I don’t think he’ll want to stay awake late for a film.”

      “That’s fine with me.  Why don’t you and Sherlock enjoy the opulence of my luxurious sofa and I’ll keep Mycroft company in the bedroom with a couple of good books and…”

Lestrade opened the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of the wine he’d found they liked and could easily afford.  Passing that one to John, he pulled out a second, thanking his stars that even cheap wine could be found on discount now and then, along with two glasses and bid the younger pair goodnight.

      “Well, apparently, Greg’s decided this is cause for celebration.”

      “An extra packet of soy sauce in our take-away bags is sufficient cause for Lestrade to celebrate.”

      “As it should be.  Pull down some glasses and we can make a start of it.”

      “Will we still watch our film?”

      “Yes, we can watch the detective film you want so you can make fun of the ridiculous deductions.”

      “Very well, then I agree to our entertainment plan.”

      “Goody.  And don’t forget, we have an early morning ahead of us.”

      “That is not something I am likely to forget.  Are you prepared?”

      “Not really.”

      “Perfect.”

__________

      “Mycroft?”

      “…………………….”

      Mycroft, love?”

      “…………………….”

      “Mycroft!”

      “Are… you are certain?”

Lestrade laughed and topped off the artist’s wine, which had nearly been drained after he made the happy announcement that sent his lover into a fugue state.

      “You tell me.”

      “I… oh dear.  Yes, you are right.  You are unquestionably right.”

      “Hence, our lovely wine to celebrate.  Unless… unless you don’t think…”

Mycroft shook off the last of his shock and leaned over to kiss his lover firmly and with a smile that never left his lips.

      “This is absolutely worth celebrating.  And Sherlock… he was truly ebullient?”

      “Does that mean happy?”

      “It does.”

      “Then, I’d say so.  I mean, we didn’t actually talk about it, but, yes, I don’t think he’d make a joke about something that disturbed him.  Of course, we don’t know actually what ‘that’ amounts to, but…”

      “But it is more than he previously experienced, so this is certainly a milestone.  Rest assured, I shall determine the details and duly inform you of them.”

      “Perfect.  My Mycroft gets a good report and Sherlock gets a good…”

      “Gregory!”

Now it was Lestrade’s turn to kiss his lover, though this one was slow and soft.

      “You’re adorable when you’re scandalized.”

      “Then, by all means, feel free to involve me in your scandals.

      “Oh, I mean to.  A little wine, a little scandal… there’s no better way to end the day.”

      “My Gregory is an exemplar of the romantic.”

      “I do my best.  Of course, I also have the best inspiration in the world.  The handsomest, sexiest, inspiration imaginable.”

      “Do you know, I believe our celebration requires candles.”

      “And douse the lamps?”

      “My very thought.”

      “Like I said, the best way to end the day.”

      “And aren’t we lucky we might end tomorrow in the very same manner?”

Yes, the hunt for the new flat would begin very soon.  What he could do with his artist in a larger bedroom, and bed, was positively mindboggling…

__________

Lestrade’s suspicious were at the fore again as he left the flat in the morning, three smiling faces seeing him out the door with what could only be described as a kindly kick to his arse, but, since he couldn’t barricade the door and demand an explanation, he dropped the hint that he might return home for lunch and left with a full-force glare to each of whom would now be termed ‘the perpetrators.’  Even the breathtaking sketch he carefully clutched in the frame that used to house a picture of him in primary school wasn’t enough to earn his artist the benefit of the doubt.

      “Finally.  Mycroft, obtain your supplies.  John, be seated.”

Sherlock pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and John sat down with a deep and heavy sigh.  Another one erupted when Mycroft returned from the bedroom with his box of materials and completed components which had lived the past several days at the back of the bedroom closet under a camouflaging pile of art supplies.

      “Yes, this will do nicely.  Sherlock, if you would provide me a small cup of water and a few kitchen cloths… oh, and John will need a towel to protect his clothing.”

This time, it was Sherlock gathering materials and, while Mycroft began to set up, John reflected on just how far afield his life had gone since he met the two brothers.  Maybe he should simply say he now _had_ a life since he met the brothers and leave it at that…

      “Ah, good.  Arrange the towel, will you, and we shall begin.  It is still not too late, however, to obtain a package of hair dye…”

      “No!”

      “John has stated his refusal on more than one occasion and your desire for artistic license will not override his decision.”

      “But a wig… and a ghastly one, at that.”

      “If you believe you could have purloined a better one, then you should have suffered the halls of the theater department and found one yourself.”

      “Oh, very well.  Perhaps with some scissors I can sculpt it to something more appropriate.  Now, John, this will take some time to do properly, so please let me know if you require a respite and, of course, Sherlock will provide you with refreshments, as needed.”

      “What time is Mrs. Hudson coming?”

      “At 10:30 am, I believe.  It will depend on when her husband leaves for the day.  Sherlock, your… associate… is expecting us?”

      “He is awaiting our call.”

      “Excellent.  Then let us begin.”

__________

A few minutes before the appointed time, Sherlock was answering the knock at the door and welcoming a quivering Mrs. Hudson into the flat.

      “Sherlock, I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am!”

      “Good, that will compensate for John’s nervousness.”

      “Oh, the poor boy.  But… dear me.  I hadn’t expected _that_.”

The older woman finally saw John sitting at the table and knew, oddly, by the very familiar mote of worry that threaded through her today was going to go splendidly.

      “You look just like my husband!  Evil little bastard that he is.  Oh, Mycroft… I never thought you’d be able to do this so perfectly!”

While Mycroft preened at the praise for his first attempt at makeup artistry.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  The texts Sherlock obtained on techniques for film-industry makeup and effects were quite illuminating.  Unfortunately, I have had few chances to practice, so I am highly relieved the outcome passes muster.  And I must thank you for the volume of photographs you were able to provide.  They were exceedingly helpful.”

The older woman looked John over from every angle and couldn’t believe the resemblance.  To a close friend, John would be found out in an instant, but to people who rarely, if ever, saw her husband… this was better than she could have hoped!

      “I simply can’t believe it.  And I brought one of his suits, like you asked.”

Which Sherlock relieved her of to hang in the bathroom for John to slip into before they left.

      “Excellent.  Now, you remember our little fabrication, correct?”

      “He’s been ill, the poor dear, and has lost some weight.  He’s doing better, but it gave him a bit of a fright and that’s why we’re there.  And, did you make those arrangements?”

      “Yes, which shall be our first stop.  A cup of tea, though, before we leave?  John would appreciate, I am certain, a bit more practice with the voice and I, for one, could use a moment to relax and gather strength.”

      “Of course, you poor dear.  Look at you, up and about almost as well as I remember.  And doing all of this work… you’re a marvel, Mycroft Holmes, and don’t let anyone tell you anything different.”

And, again, Mycroft had to curtail his visible preening, much to Sherlock’s delight.  His brother was unutterably insufferable when his ego had been stroked.

      “All for a good cause.  And you will return with us for a celebratory lunch, will you not?”

      “I most certainly will.  If there’s ever been a good day for a party, this is it.”

Looking at the readiness and conviction in John and Sherlock’s faces, Mycroft had to agree.  Today was going to be a joy…

__________

      “How many more?”

Mrs. Hudson looked over the list she had compiled for items that were still unchecked.

      “Ummm…. four.”

Just because the day was a joy, did not mean it wasn’t exhausting and Mycroft was very relieved they were nearing the end of their quest.  First, it was the stop to have John’s forged identity documents finalized with his photograph, something about which Mycroft had decided not to interrogate his brother too closely as it was helping their cause.  However, one day he _would_ learn how Sherlock cultivated this particular acquaintance.  Then it was moving through Mrs. Hudson’s list of banks and investment houses, sequentially adding her name as a signatory to the existing accounts.  It would then be a matter of timing, draining each of the accounts and creating new ones, so that, when the villain was brought to justice, Mrs. Hudson would have unfettered access to the funds. 

      “Very good.  And, John, I do have to say how impressed I have been with your performance.  Quite the number of times I believed I was hearing the man himself rudely treat the financial functionaries to whom we were speaking.

      “Thanks!  I’ve kept my ear open when Sherlock and I visited.  And, it looks like we’ll be done in time for a good late lunch and maybe another bottle of Greg’s wine.”

Seeing the glee that lit up Mrs. Hudson’s face, both Mycroft and Sherlock knew the last stop on the way home would be to buy another few bottles of their now-traditional house wine to accompany their lunch.  And, perhaps, a small stop at the bakery would also not be amiss.  What was a party without a slice or two of cake?

__________

It actually hadn’t been difficult to leave work a little early, since he’d stayed late three nights last week and went in early once, too, to help prepare some paperwork to secure various warrants they needed to move forward.  What he’d expected to do was come home and shake loose from his personal Three Stooges what they’d been up to that day.  What he _hadn’t_ expected was four obviously tipsy people enjoying one of Sherlock’s violin concerts and a half-eaten cake on the kitchen table.

      “Gregory!  My beloved!  Come and sit!  Sherlock is absolutely masterful this evening… or is it afternoon?  It matters not…”

Mycroft’s eyes shined with the most beautiful gleam of mild intoxication and Lestrade could only smile as he tossed his jacket over a kitchen chair and took a seat next to his lover on the sofa.

      “And hello to you, love.  You, too, Mrs. Hudson.  I’m glad they had you in for the party.”

      “It’s a celebration!  The boys… we’re so blessed to have them, you know.  What I would have done without them, I’ll never know.”

Which brought the PC right back to the purpose of his sneak attack on the home front.

      “Oh, and just what did _the boys_ get up to today?”

Three not-sober males straightened up and looked as proud as a man could be, Sherlock actually bowing as if he was receiving a standing ovation for his music.

      “They saved me, is what they did.  Kept this old body out of the gutter.  And bought me cake!  Wine, too, which goes marvelously with cake, did you know that?  Well, it does.  Blessed… really, there’s no other word for it.”

      “I see.  Mycroft, care to fill in a few details.”

      “I believe Mrs. Hudson summarized the situation most succinctly.”

      “I see.  Sherlock… no, you’re swaying and eyeing the wine.  John, you look partially aware.  What do you have to say for yourself?  And aren’t you supposed to be working tonight?”

      “Traded shifts.  Can’t work drunk, now, can I?  Against the law and you’d have to run me in, which would definitely ruin our party.”

      “Ok, so you’re not even partially aware.  Back around the circle we go.  Mycroft, why don’t you tell me about your day?  You know how I like hearing that when I get home.”

Mycroft clapped his hands together and lit up with a big smile before pouring out their adventures, with Mrs. Hudson, John and Sherlock adding in bits and pieces that were mostly true as the story went on.  When it was over, Lestrade looked at the four beaming faces and could do nothing but laugh.

      “So, you accomplished your mission of keeping Mrs. Hudson in Baker Street.”

      “Partially.  Now it is on you, my dear, to notify us when you plan to lay hands on the blackguard so that we may enact the final portion of our little charade.  We shall use some form of code word, I believe.  I favor something from the ancient Greek, but John is campaigning for a more avian theme.”

      “I’ll think of the perfect thing, don’t worry about that part.”

      “Again, my love for you grow by leaps and bounds.  Why have you no wine?  Here, allow me to pour you a glass.  You may have my glass, actually, and I shall refresh it.  Sherlock, provide me with a clean glass so that I may have more wine.  Gregory has taken mine.”

That Sherlock actually complied made Lestrade laugh again and, finally, loosen his tie and settle in to join the celebration.  They hadn’t lied; their own little plan didn’t cross into his area and… they’d done it.  His beautiful artist and the lovebirds had actually done it.  Or almost done it and he would make sure that they got the word at precisely the right moment to make their efforts a success.  And, this one time, he’d turn a blind eye to the blatant illegality of every part of their fiendish plan…

      “Yes, I wickedly stole Mycroft’s wine glass right away from him.  And you, Mrs. Hudson, what time do I have to see you home tonight?”

      “Oh, not for awhile yet.  I told the Mr. that I’d be out with the girls, so there’s no rush.  Besides, you’re ordering pizza for us, don’t you remember?”

      “I did.  Silly of me for that to slip my mind.”

      “That’s alright, dear, it happens to the best of us.”


	41. Chapter 41

Lestrade closed the door behind him very, very quietly.  Then, he walked through the station, nodding politely to the other officers he knew, until he exited the building at the rear and, after looking around for any surreptitious smokers enjoying a break, let out a ear-shattering whoop of excitement.  He got the job!  He was now Detective Constable Greg Lestrade!  He’d worked hard, proved he could do the work and now… it was his.  He’d hoped for this for so long, since he joined the police, actually.  Hoped he could do just what he was doing now.  Pawing through files and folders and piles of paper and columns of numbers… that part of the job might not be the most exciting, but when you found something.  When you got that ‘ah ha’ moment… there was nothing better.

And he got to use his brain, something… well, something some people had said when he was younger that he wasn’t much good at.  No, he didn’t have a fancy education and grew up doing the things most common boys did, but that didn’t mean he was stupid.  It didn’t mean he couldn’t think and reason.  He _could_ and he had the work ethic and determination to stick with a tangle of a problem until he teased out the very last thread.  Now, he’d get to do that every day.  Have countless puzzles and problems sent his way that made a difference.  That were important and solving them helped people.  And wasn’t it nice that he was informed at the end of his shift so he could go home and not sit at his desk and explode waiting to tell his lover.  He’d sit just long enough to figure out how to tell his lover and how much celebration they were going to enjoy when he did.

__________

Alone.  For a full, blissful day, he was alone and his Gregory had gone to such lengths to ensure that his time would be as enjoyable as could be.  His usual easel set up, instead of the child’s one he used it bed, along with the stool he typically used for painting in his and Sherlock’s flat, though it bore the addition of a cushion lashed to the seat.  A small, high table that his partner had scavenged from someone’s rubbish stood next to him so his supplies were at his fingertips, alleviating the need to bend down to retrieve something, since he had absolutely vetoed using the kitchen table as his staging area.  In no manner was their dining table going to suffer the insult of spills and smudges.  He felt a need to keep their home clean and tidy and separate from his work, though it housed him and his process while that work was accomplished.  To keep it a _home_ and not simply a studio.

So here he was with everything set the way he preferred and all day he had been alone with his art and the soft music from the radio he had set on the sofa table.  This was what he had imagined when his dear Gregory had first offered him the use of this space… quiet, warmth, comfort and the opportunity to focus all of his attention on his work and not the hardships that continually tugged at the edges of his mind.

Not to say those did not still exist, for they surely did.  These, though, were of a different flavor than those of cold and hunger.  They were more insidious and ancient, but, were _far_ more intriguing to explore through his paints and brushes.  Not that he enjoyed prodding those areas which, now and again, burst like festered boil and released masses of ugliness that required he take some time to recover his composure and wipe away the traces of his unseemly demonstration, but it was important that he do so.   Important for his work _and_ for his well-being.   It was not pleasant, but those he loved were doing their utmost to ensure his health and welfare and he must, he positively _must_ , do the same.  It would dishonor their gift not to and… he was beginning to sense a shift in the winds of his mind, steering him slowly and carefully into believing that he deserved the health and well-being for which they were valiantly fighting.

Which was why these times alone were so precious.  Not that he regretted a second of the time he spent with the members of his new and vibrant family, however, this exploration of the very black and cold depths of his soul was not something for which he was comfortable having his family witness.  For the first dip into the well, at least. Later, when he had held that broken bit of his soul in his hands and let it guide his brush, he would talk.  His Gregory was a balm to his shattered self that he would never be able to fully describe, though he clung to it fiercely.  His love would listen for hours, remaining silent or asking gentle, compassionate questions that proved that his listening was… listening.  That he was hearing every word and thinking about them, not simply allowing his mind to wander while the stream of confession filled their bedroom.

But, his solitude was likely soon to end and he felt no upset over the fact.  He had accomplished what he had hoped and, looking at his piece, he could see the remainder of the partially-finished piece, hovering ghostly above the canvas, nodding agreement that it would find its flesh with tomorrow’s work.  It was nearly time for his partner to return home and, since he had received no phone call to prepare him for a late arrival, it was time to set his supplies aside and give his hands, perhaps, also, his face, a wash so he could greet his lover in somewhat a tidy fashion.  Though his Gregory did very much enjoy finding him with paint smudges on his cheek…

__________

Stupid arms.  And hands.  Why didn’t he have more of them!  Or they were longer.  He looked like a complete berk juggling his purchases and more than one bystander gave him a happy ‘fingers crossed’ sign because they were evil, evil people.  At least the door of the building was happy to be shoved open with a foot if you knew the right trick…

      “Ah, my dear… good heavens.”

Mycroft stared at his grinning lover and his overflowing arms and began to feel his own grin spread as his instincts rose up and began their round of festivities.

      “The job is yours.”

      “Yes!  I’m a DC now!”

Nimbly avoiding Lestrade’s cargo, Mycroft leaned in and kissed him soundly on the lips, liberating the bottle of champagne and pair of flutes when he finally drew back.

      “I am thrilled for you, Gregory.  Truly, I could not be more proud.”

As if his Mycroft’s unnoticed and unconscious foot-to-foot dance of joy was not telling the tale already.

      “They told me right before the end of the day.  And I’m already moved in to my desk, so come tomorrow, when I sit down, I’ll be ready to with my first official day as a detective!”

Lestrade set down the groceries he had purchased to make his celebratory dinner and did a quick jig of glee before taking Mycroft into his arms to slowly dance around the kitchen.

      “I am unbelievably proud of you, my dear.  I know how much this means to you and I could not, not in a lifetime, be happier.”

The newly-minted DC laid a kiss on his artist’s cheek and hummed in satisfaction.

      “I was confident, you know, but… there’s always that tiny bit of doubt that sits in your skull like a nasty old troll because… well, things go wrong, don’t they?  Someone’s got a brother who they’d like to see have a leg up or someone applies that the men in charge would be completely stupid to turn away.”

      “Yet, none of that happened and you now wear your well-deserved crown.”

      “Actually, I’ll get to set aside my normal crown, at least for daily work.  I can still wear my uniform, though, now and then when the toddlers aren’t home and we want a little extra spicy fun.”

      “What a delicious suggestion.  You are ever a surprise and I do enjoy a host of surprises in my life.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.  And look!  A nice fish dinner and champagne to enjoy while I cook.  Afterwards, I thought we could take a walk and find a little something sweet to share.  How does that sound?”

      “Like heaven descended to Earth.”

      “And you can watch my bum while I shake my pots and pans.”

      “I intend to.”

Lestrade smiled brightly at Mycroft’s very dignified leer and motioned him to stand back while he popped the cork on the champagne and poured a glass for each of them.

      “To us, love.”

Mycroft lifted his glass and clinked it with Lestrade’s, marveling how the sound it made suited the mood perfectly.

      “To us.  And the many years of joy we will share.”

      “I’ll definitely drink to that.  And do I see your easel out and being used for something other than a coat stand?”

      “That you do.  I had quite a productive day, though, the final result shall not manifest until tomorrow.”

      “I promise not to peek, then.”

After another kiss, this one on his artist’s lips, Lestrade began unpacking his shopping and organizing himself to start cooking.  Some good fish, with rice and fresh vegetables… not the sort of thing he’d normally cook for himself, but living with Mycroft’s health situation had shifted his perspective and a slug of meat with a bag of potatoes or a cripplingly-big bowl of pasta wasn’t something that tickled his tastebuds as much as it used to.  It was sort of fun getting creative in the kitchen and making things that were healthier than his normal fare.  And it wasn’t as if he was having for forsake his treats, now, was it?  In fact, with Mycroft’s eating moods, he actually felt virtuous when he brought another package of biscuits or bag of pastries into the flat and who couldn’t do with a little extra virtue in their lives?  Now, if only his lover would take his own health a tad more seriously…

      “Mycroft, what are you doing?”

      “Helping you.”

Which meant standing for awhile, lots of chopping and cutting and lifting and things that still made Lestrade a little uneasy if his artist was doing them in anything other than a glacially-slow and careful fashion.

      “I can do this, love, you don’t need to stress yourself.”

Mycroft shook his head and smiled indulgently at his partner.

      “I am quite able to assist in the kitchen, Gregory.  In fact, who was it that started meal preparations last night when you were running a tad late?”

Mycroft slowly puttering around the kitchen, good smells already starting to fill the air had been a truly glorious sight.  His artist had come so very far… and he needed to let go of his own fears and show his partner he recognized and was tremendously proud of his progress and accomplishments.

      “And, lately, I believe I’ve seen a handsome gent doing wonderful things in the morning, if I’m not mistaken.”

      “I do enjoy providing you with a nourishing breakfast to start your day.”

      “Alright then, I won’t nudge you to have a seat and watch me work.  It’ll be harder to watch my bum if you’re standing here next to me, though.”

      “I shall steal quick and surreptitious glances.”

      “Very efficient of you.”

      “I do try.”

__________

      “I believe this is the best ‘hey, I got the job!’ dinner ever cooked.”

      “I would agree.  Everything is flavorful and cooked precisely to the proper texture.  And excellent meal perfectly prepared.”

      “We make a good team, Mycroft.  In so, so many ways.”

It was becoming a thing of the past for the artist to have his emotional hold shaken, but now and again, he still felt surge of sentiment that threatened to overwhelm him and those instances were almost exclusively the result of time spent with his partner.

      “I… I must admit that is the case.  I did not understand, truly, how a pair of individuals could complement each naturally and successfully until I met you and found the person who is my other half.”

      “Then it’s lucky I have no plan be anywhere but with you.  We just have to figure out where the ‘with you’ part is going to be.”

      “Ah, yes.  Sherlock was moaning much like a disconcerted spirit just yesterday about the closeness of our quarters.”

      “Let me guess, he wanted to make himself pretty for his night out with John and you were in the loo.”

      “Precisely.  A bedroom of his own for dressing, as well as sleeping, is not an unexpected thing for him to desire, though it has been an age since he has actually seen such a thing.”

      “Yeah, but now, he knows that it’s potentially within reach, so he’s getting anxious.  Plus, he needs a space to shag.  Which means we’ll need earplugs.”

      “Something he also bemoans, though, we have been most considerate in the volume level of our passion.”

      “Except when we want to wind him up.”

      “Of course.”

      “Well, we _are_ going to have to look for a new flat, so we might as well start thinking about it seriously.  For instance... if you’re going to go back to your patch, then we need something close so you can walk your supplies there and back.”

Mycroft noticed the slight tinge of upset in Lestrade’s voice and knew the reason for it, though he did not thoroughly understand his lover’s thinking on the subject.

      “You would rather I did not return to that manner of wage earning.”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      “You did not have to.”

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and contemplated downing the rest of the champagne before barreling along with the conversation.

      “If I’m honest, I’d have to say no, I don’t want you going back and yes, I do want you going back.”

      “I am not certain that sentence could be less informative than it currently stands, no matter the degree of effort you might throw into the task.”

      “Yeah, that was crap, wasn’t it?  But, it really _is_ how I feel.  I love the idea of you out there, doing what makes you happy and getting to chat with people and spread your talent to those who’ve never been lucky enough to see it.  And people do know you from being there and that’s a good connection with the community.  They ask me questions about how you’re doing when I visit Mrs. Hudson and it’s because they care about you.”

      “However…”

      “However.  That’s the part I can’t get past.  You work hard and for pennies.  You’re out there in the cold and damp and it hurts for me to think of you doing that.”

      “Aren’t policemen subject to the same hardship?”

      “With some quality weather gear, sure.”

      “Which I will happily purchase if it makes you feel more comfortable about my situation.”

      “It’s not my comfort I care about, love.  It’s yours.  I don’t like thinking about you cold or wet or getting too much sun on your skin… all to make a few pence to keep body and soul together.  I know you don’t want me to be the only one bringing in money and I understand that.  I wouldn’t want that either, if I was in your place. I just wish…”

      “That I saw more financial compensation for the work I do.”

      “No, that you received more recognition for the work you do.  I would be completely happy if you never earned another quid from your art, Mycroft, but I wish that more people could see your work and that the _right_ people could see it.   The ones who know, immediately, how good it is.  I saw how happy you were after your first therapy session.  Your eyes practically glowed when you talked about your counselor and how he spoke about your pieces.  John and I can say they’re wonderful, but we know nothing about art.  Having someone who does know say they were wonderful… I could tell in an instant how much that meant to you.  Now, I know artists aren’t supposed to care about recognition and people’s approval, but I think that’s bollocks.  You want to be appreciated and understood just as much as anyone and I want to see you have that.  I just don’t think you’re going to get it making sketches for people on their lunch hour.”

Mycroft reached across the table and took Lestrade’s hand, squeezing it lightly and caressing the skin with his thumb.

      “And I will not dishonor you with a lie.  It _is_ heartening to receive an encouraging word from someone who knows the intricacies of art and states that your work has merit.   That the message, the intent of the piece was successfully rendered.  Who admires your technique and can discuss with you why your painting or drawing evokes the emotion or train of thought you had hoped to prompt.  What has helped heal my spirit to an even greater degree during these dark times has, however, been the unflagging support from both you and John.  Do not belittle the value of your opinion or the effect on me of our discussions about my works for they were ferociously powerful in assisting my recovery.  But, yes… a practiced eye and an opinion formed from focused study has its own value, as well.”

      “And, that’s what I don’t think you get on the street.  People say your work is great and lovely and thank you for their sketch, but… I want more for you, love.  I want everything for you that you deserve.”

This time, Mycroft rose from his seat and extended his hand for his partner to take.

      “And I love your for that, Gregory Lestrade. I have inside me the constant warmth of your love and support and know that I am a blessed individual for having such a thing.  What say we now go in search of a sweet end to our meal and enjoy the crispness of the night air where you may do your utmost to keep me warm in whatever manner you see fit for the job?  And we may use the time as we stroll to discuss in further detail this particular topic of conversation.”

So, his artist wasn’t tabling the discussion permanently, but wanted a slightly different atmosphere to keep the ball rolling.  That was fine with him.  A moderate walk in the brisk night air was certainly going to keep his lover in a good mood and open-minded to his concerns.  Which Mycroft did seem to be taking seriously…

      “Sounds good.  Let me get your coat, hat, mittens, extra socks, scarf… did we buy you any woolen pants?”

The DC suffered the swat to his arm and rewarded his artist with a stuck out tongue, which earned _him_ a shock as Mycroft was fast enough to grab it between two fingers before he could return it into his mouth.

      “That wath’nt sfthunny.”

      “Au contraire.  I am finding this quite amusing.  Come along, Gregory, let us find a piece of string so that I may maintain my hold more easily while dressing you warmly for our promenade.”

      “Wootfh woothf?”

      “Such a good doggy.  We shall adorn you in a lovely coat for passersby to admire.”

Lestrade beamed proudly and Mycroft released his tongue to put it to much better use by giving him a kiss.

      “I love you, Mycroft Holmes.  No matter how cheeky you are.”

And, with just the right amount of warm clothes, the couple was out of the house and beginning their stroll.  Some people might need fancy restaurants or clubs or parties to have a nice night, but Lestrade knew that the only thing he would ever need was his artist.  Nights like these were simply the best…

__________

      “So beautiful…”

      “I agree.”

      “You are not looking at the sky, Gregory.”

      “I’m looking at you and that’s beautiful enough for me.”

      “Flatterer.”

      “Guilty.”

The couple walked silently for some time, taking in the sights and sounds , enjoying the feeling of the being in love, until Mycroft gave Lestrade’s hand a gentle squeeze and drew in a small breath.

      “Do you remember our first assignation, my dear?”

      “When I came to your flat?  For a little while, at least?”

      “Yes.  I am not certain I can ever fully express to you how much it meant that you were willing to walk with me after Sherlock’s shameful and… revealing… tantrum.  I fully expected that you would politely end our evening and that I would never again see your smile.  I would have understood, it was impossible for me _not_ to understand, but… you stayed with me and graced me with the most delightful night I had ever experienced.  I was profoundly impacted by our time together in a way I am still struggling to comprehend, let alone express, but I speak the truth when I say it was a pivotal event in my life and I try daily to give you some small semblance of the joy that you gave to _me_ as we strolled and lost ourselves in conversation.”

      “You give me joy every day, Mycroft, don’t you ever worry about that.  And I loved our first date!  I admit I thought it was going to be a bit more naked, but I’ve never looked back on that night and wished it was anything other than what it turned out to be.  That was the best!  It wasn’t easy to hear about your life, it certainly wasn’t what I was expecting when I first met you, but I never thought for a moment about walking away and never seeing you again.  I’ve never thought that once since I met you, actually.  Nothing that’s happened has ever made me want to just put it all behind me and find someone new.  I think I began to fall in love with you that very first night and knew, even then, that there was nothing I wouldn’t do to make you happy.”

      “Something for which my heart beats daily.  And, in the spirit of this convivial discourse, perhaps you would like to tell me what you, Sherlock and John are discussing when I spy you engaged in quiet and clandestine conversation?  I believe that would make me _very_ happy, indeed.”

Oops.

      “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

      “Gregory…”

      “No, I didn’t understand what you asked me.  Can you make it a tad more clear so I have a chance of answering you?”

      “You are dissembling, my love, and doing a frighteningly feeble job of it.”

      “I didn’t understand that either.”

      “Gregory Lestrade!  You, Sherlock and John are hiding something from me and I want it revealed!”

      “One, I think you’re daft and two, isn’t it an irritating thing to know that the people in your life are keeping something from you?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and seethed a little from the tangent of Lestrade’s argument, but rational rebuttal was not going to win the day!

      “Our motives were supremely noble and you are very well aware of that fact.”

      “Irritation doesn’t care about nobility, love.”

      “Then divulge your own assuredly-noble purpose and we can leave alone the tedious topic of irritation.”

      “Still have no idea what you’re talking about.  Hey, how’s your knee doing?  We’re not walking too fast are we?”

      “Attempting to distract me only solidifies my suspicions, Detective Constable.”

And wasn’t his lover’s sudden gleeful smile the brightest sight in London…

      “That was honest concern!  A distraction would be ‘Look!  Aliens!’  We’ll work on that so you get better at knowing the difference.”

      “Your japery will not sway me from my path, Gregory.”

      “My draperies sway just fine, thank you very much.”

Lestrade cut a glance towards his partner and felt his hair burst into flames from the heat of Mycroft’s incendiary glare.

      “Mycroft… remember when you told me that you were protecting me by keeping your scheme a secret?  Well, you’re not the only one who can do something like that, you know, or might have reason for it.”

The DC knew that wouldn’t turn his artist’s mind from the topic, but he had to at least give it a try.  Plus, it bought him another few seconds to think.

      “You admit there is something transpiring about which I have not been informed.”

      “Nothing definite or… action-y, so there’s really nothing to talk about.”

      “I find that highly unlikely.”

      “Mycroft… can I ask you to trust me and leave this alone?”

      “You may ask and I shall reply that I trust you with my life, however, I shall not leave his alone.”

      “Well, that’s not fair.”

      “A sentiment I shall return to you in full.”

      “Mycroft, please… I just don’t want you to be upset.”

      “Firstly, I am not a fragile flower.  Secondly, I have already taken steps along that particular path.”

Lestrade had no idea how Mycroft had picked up on their conversations, because he had done everything possible to avoid any discussions about a certain topic unless Mycroft was asleep or in the shower, but, as usual, his lover proved a more formidable person than he’d expected.

      “Fine.  And, really, it’s nothing.  At least not yet.  But if you have to know… Sherlock, John and I have been investigating the bastard that hurt you so we can find some way to make him pay for being such an animal.”

Instinct drove Lestrade to wrap an arm around Mycroft for support and, from the slackening of his artist’s muscles, he knew it was a good thing he did or he might be picking his lover up off the sidewalk.

      “You…”

      “It’s alright, Mycroft.  As I said, we’re just investigating.  Looking for what other evil he’s been doing so we can see you get some form of justice.”

The thunderclouds building in Mycroft’s eyes cut Lestrade to the core, but he couldn’t erase the painful memories or the feelings of guilt and shame that rode with them.  All he could do was comfort, reassure and love his artist with his whole heart and soul and hope that would be enough.

      “This was my choice, Gregory.”

      “And, I bet if you ask your counselor’s opinion, he’d say it wasn’t as simple as that.”

      “It matters not.”

      “It matters lots.  And, think about it, love… if that savage did what he did to you, what might he have done to other people?  What might he _do_ to other people?  I didn’t say we were trying to bring him to trial your abuse, because I know you don’t want that, but there could be someone else out there who might be willing to speak up and put that bastard in prison.  Save other people in the future from suffering what you did.”

Lestrade coaxed Mycroft into motion and walked slowly down a quiet side street to give his partner time to digest what he’d learned.

      “What… have you discovered anything?”

      “A little.  Sherlock and John have focused on his current life and I’ve dug into his past.  We’ve got a few names to pursue and just this week Sherlock brought me some gossip that’s not very well known except to certain members of the financial community that might prove useful.  We’re not doing anything that brings you into it, love, so don’t worry about that.  Your name isn’t going into any file or brought up in any conversation.  We want to make him pay for what he did, but not at the expense of your well-being.  And, no, we didn’t think this was something we thought you should know right now because it would upset you and you have enough to deal with as it is.”

Mycroft nodded and Lestrade stopped to take his artist in a long hug, while Mycroft simply breathed through the wash of memories that were flowing through his mind like a foul and bitter river.

      “We just wanted to protect you, love.  At some point, we would have said something, but it would have been after the animal was locked away where he’d never see daylight again.  Does that make sense?”

The artist laid his head on Lestrade’s shoulder and nodded again, then took in several breaths rich with the DC’s comforting scent.

      “It does and I cannot find it within myself to fault you for it.  I… I harbored a suspicion that you would not leave alone the issue but when no mention was ever made of it…”

      “Never once forgot about it, Mycroft.  I started the moment I returned to work building a file and keep working on it when I have a free moment.  What happened to you was wrong, love.  It was _wrong_ and that miserable excuse for a human being needs to learn that lesson.  Sherlock and John are just as committed as I am, too.  Now, do you want to start for home?  There’s a nice  telly and a fairly comfortable sofa that would be more than happy to entertain us.”

Mycroft made sure to drag his cheek against his lover’s shoulder to erase any trace of his emotions and shook his head firmly at the suggestion.

      “Not at the moment, I do not.  The night is clear and… I find myself desiring another morsel of something sweet.  Shall we find an appropriate offering?”

There was a determination in Mycroft’s eyes that told Lestrade not to even question the highly unusual request.  If this was his lover’s ‘fuck you’ to that despicable beast, then good for him.  The more of those, in fact, the better…

      “That sounds wonderful.  I can think of a few places close by that might have something to satisfy.  A little treat, a little fresh air… what could be better!”

Lestrade kissed his artist gently, then took his hand and began leading him towards a café that he knew had a decent pastry case, even at this time of the evening.  His Mycroft would get the most decadent, luxurious pastry they could find and even if he only ate two or three bites, it would be a billion delicious calories to fatten his body and remind him that he was the victor in this whole nasty business.  He could have given up, but he didn’t and he was winning.  _They_ were winning and that deserved all the celebration they could possibly enjoy…

__________

 Oh, this was a busy night.  Busy nights at a hospital were massive contradictions because they were exciting/challenging on one hand and frustrating/draining on the other.  And, of course, there was the niggle of guilt that the excitement and challenge was at the expense of someone else’s suffering, but you shoved that very, very far down so you could keep your spirits up and your energy high to do your best for that person.  And you especially didn’t let your mind turn towards a tall, surly man with lips that just begged to be kissed or _nothing_ would get done.   As he’d been told by more than one nurse who caught him daydreaming when he was supposed to be earning his wage.

And here he was, starting to daydream again, but at least it was on his official break so nobody could complain or calling him lazy and love-addled, which he was most certainly wasn’t.  There wasn’t a harder working doctor in the building, in fact, and he was happy to take his own word for it.  And, now, he had a mobile phone ringing at him.

      “Hello?”

      “Shouldn’t you say something about being useless Doctor Watson when you’re on duty?”

      “Shouldn’t you say something about being useless PC Greg Lestrade any time of day?”

      “No, because it’s DC Lestrade now, for your information.”

John felt a smile growing on his face and didn’t have any desire to pack it away.  This was marvelous news and he knew it meant the world to his friend.

      “Really?  They finally let you know?”

      “That they did and Mycroft and I already had the dinner and champagne to prove it.”

      “Congratulations, mate!  That’s fantastic.  You deserve it and I’m glad your superiors realized it.”

      “Thanks!  It feels good, you know, to work for something and finally have it happen.”

      “That it does.  So, you called to tell me the good news or is Sherlock in jail again?”

      “No to both, actually.  I wanted to put you on alert that… well, that Mycroft found out about us looking into the piece of filth that brutalized him.  I don’t know exactly what he heard or saw, but he asked me about what you, Sherlock and me were keeping from him and wouldn’t let it go until I told him.”

John huffed out a frustrated sigh and tapped his phone against his ear.  He had a feeling Mycroft would learn what they were up to at some point, he had just hoped it wouldn’t be quite so soon.

      “How’s he doing?”

      “Good, I suspect.  It’s always a little hard to tell with him, but I think, after the initial surprise, he accepted it.  I made sure to impress on him that his business wasn’t being spread around London and that it _wouldn’t_ be, no matter what happened.  He didn’t say to stop or get angry or anything.  In fact, he nibbled his way through half an éclair not ten minutes after we had that conversation and he grinned through every bite.  I’m sure his brain is still working its way around all of it and he’ll probably paint his way through his ideas, but… I think he’ll be alright. I wanted you to know, though.  Are you seeing Sherlock in the morning?”

      “I’m supposed to meet him for breakfast and he usually comes straight from his lab, so I’ll be able to tell him before he runs into his brother.  Sherlock’s doing very well being… considerate… to Mycroft’s situation, but I can see some argument starting over why Mycroft wasn’t told and if Sherlock’s caught unawares he may react poorly.”

      “That’s what I was thinking.  I’m not too worried about it, though.  I have a feeling Mycroft’s going to pick up his brushes the second I leave the flat in the morning and won’t emerge until I’m back home again.”

      “You’re probably right.  And he’s got a therapist’s appointment in a couple of days, so he’ll probably talk his way through some of it then.  But, since we’re on the subject… any motion on that information Sherlock brought you?”

      “Actually, yes.  I’ve come to learn that former business rivals are more than happy to answer a few vague, yet completely understandable, questions about people they don’t like or would enjoy seeing taken out their way.  I got a few names out of my inquiries that I think are angry enough to come forward.  Most of that is about sketchy business practices and some very juicy fiscal misconduct, but it’s something to start with. If I can get an official inquiry going, then more and more is going to fall from the trees and that’s when the really ugly truths are going to be exposed.  And I think the people I talked to earlier _about_ those ugly truths are nearly ready to agree to give an official statement.  It can’t be easy and I don’t blame them a bit not wanting to talk about what happened to them.  I know first, well second-hand, how devastating it is and what runs through the mind when you think about what will happen if people find out.”

      “That’s good news, at least.  How much of that did you tell Mycroft?”

      “Not much.  I just told him we were making progress, but not many of the details.  That was enough for him, though.  And, though he didn’t say it, I think that deep inside, he’s happy we’re not letting this drop without a fight.  He still believes it’s mostly his fault, but not as much as he did when it first happened, so… he’s making progress.”

      “Good, that’s actually very good to hear.  It’s a positive sign and he’ll probably feel even better when we’ve got happy news to tell him.  I take it he’s asleep now?”

      “Actually, he’s in the shower.”

      “He’s in the shower a lot.  And for what seems like an eternity.”

      “Yeah, but think of how long he had to live without a hot shower and it makes sense.  And, add onto it how long he had to have a shower with someone helping him so he didn’t hurt himself.”

      “True.  And it gives you a lot of chances to sneak in for a little wet and soapy fun, right?”

      “Which is exactly where I’m going now.  He gave my bum a nice fondle or two on our walk and that always spells good things for Greg Lestrade.”

      “Something I did not need to know.  Feel free to leave my ears in peace.”

      “Not a problem.  See you tomorrow night?”

      “Most likely.  It’s like having my own personal restaurant to visit before I go on shift.”

      “Funny man.  I’m going to start charging you rent.”

      “Aren’t you losing wet and soapy time?”

      “Damn, you’re right.  Talk to you later, then.”

John laughed at the immediate disconnection of their call and had to admit he’d do the same if Sherlock was naked and soapy in a hot shower.  Which wasn’t going to happen anytime soon with their current ‘living’ arrangements.  Maybe he and Sherlock could really start looking for something suitable instead of him just letting Sherlock rage at the availabilities.  Time to get serious and do it properly.  Greg was going to be busy, what with his official and unofficial case, and Mycroft didn’t need to be bothered with the legwork of visiting potential flats.  He and Sherlock could do that, though.  Make a shortlist of possibilities so Greg and Mycroft only had to take an afternoon or so to make their final decision.  He’d bring it up tomorrow night and get an idea of what exactly to look for so they could do this efficiently, something his… Sherlock… would greatly appreciate.

Besides, who knew… one day he might be on the prowl for a flat all his own.  Or to share.    
A little knowledge of the market would be a helpful thing for someone who might be looking towards the future…


	42. Chapter 42

_Detective Constable Greg Lestrade.  DC Greg Lestrade.  This is the desk of Detective Constable Greg Lestrade.  And that’s his pencil right there, looking smug in it’s promoted status.  See those files… they’re quivering a good, oh, 20% more now that they’re going to get a look-over by a newly-minted DC and not a schoolboy PC who’s hanging about the detective’s area._

It had been over a week now and he still hadn’t gotten used to fact that he’d actually gotten the job he dreamed of.  He’d finally grabbed his brass ring.  Now, it was time to work like a demon and set his sights on another one… 

      “Early again, Lestrade?”

      “Oh… sir.  Yes, sir.  Just because I’ve got a new job title, doesn’t mean I do the _job_ any differently.”

      “Good philosophy.  That’ll take you far.  And this, also, gives me a chance to ask you if it’s true you moved my mother-in-law’s sofa the other day?”

Lestrade smiled what he hoped was a ‘just being helpful, so please don’t sack me’ smile and cleared his throat before answering.

      “Uh… yes.  That and a few little tables so she could decide where best to put them, now that she got that new chair that looks better by the window than the sofa did.  Which was true, because the chair has that nice floral pattern that really adds some color to the room when there’s a bit of sun on it.”

See?  Helpful…

      “Mrs. Hudson’s doing, I suspect.”

      “Well… yes.  She knows someone who has a need and if I’m visiting, she sends me their way to have a look and see what I can do.  It’s not a bother and I’d rather do it than have the old dears and not-so old dears try it themselves and get hurt.”

Helpful, helpful, helpful…

      “Well, it’s good to know someone has taken up the yoke for the neighborhood.  My mother-in-law used to do the same to me when I was younger, as well as have me record all the details of every time anyone thought the grocer cheated them or the mail was late.”

Yes!  Helpful in a long line of helpful coppers!

      “I actually keep that in a special notebook.  Looks real professional too, and I ‘hmmmm’ and ‘I see’ a lot to give them good service.”

      “You’ll _definitely_ go far, Lestrade.  If you can placate a legion of demanding neighborhood elders, you’ll be able to manage the police service bureaucracy with much more skill than most.  Now, since we’re having this nice chat, do you also want to tell me why there’s been a change to Mr. Hudson’s accounts of late.  A change to _all_ his accounts?”

RED ALERT!  FIENDISH PLAN FAILURE IMMINENT!

      “Change, sir?  I’m not sure what you mean, sir?”

      “Do you want to stay with that story, DC, or exchange it for one that’s actually closer to the truth, since you seem to have a direct line to the lady in question?”

      “You’re not really offering me the option, are you, sir?”

      “Smart lad.  Now… what’s going on?”

Lestrade sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.  He knew this would come around to bite him…

      “It’s like this, sir.  Mycroft, Sherlock and John have been worried about what was going to happen to Mrs. Hudson if something happened to her husband, and Mrs. Hudson’s been worrying about it, too.  They just decided to… escort… Mrs. Hudson around so she could put her name on the Mr.’s accounts so she wouldn’t be left with nothing if we manage to put him somewhere he deserves to be.”

      “Mrs. Hudson knows about our investigation?”

DOUBLE RED ALERT!  GAPING HOLE IN THE HULL IN EXACTLY THE SHAPE OF HIS MOUTH!  SHIP GOING DOWN!

      “Uh… yes.  She…”

LIE!  LIE LIKE YOU LIFE DEPENDED ON IT!

      “She sort of figured it out from a few questions Sherlock asked her.  And she’s thrilled for it!  A good bit of the information I’ve brought in something she’s given us and I promise you that she hasn’t said a word to anyone about it.  Mrs. Hudson wants to see her husband out of the way as much as we do and she’s been doing what she can to make that happen.  Of course, _if_ Mr. Hudson is out of the way, that rather leaves her in a bad way doesn’t it?  Hence, the bank accounts.” 

      “And Mr. Hudson approved of this little change in the accounts ownership?”

SHIP MIGHT NOT BE SINKING!  PLAY IT COOL…

      “I didn’t have occasion to ask him, sir.”

THAT WAS SNARKY, NOT COOL, YOU STUPID BASTARD!

      “Uh huh… this is a wriggly, tangly mass of illegal activities, isn’t it, DC?”

BACK TO LYING!  YOU’RE TOO STUPID TO TELL THE TRUTH!

      “I don’t rightly know, sir.  I found out about it after the fact and didn’t get the details beyond Mrs. Hudson was happy that she probably wouldn’t have to sell her home and leave London if her husband becomes a guest of the Crown for a decade or two.”

At least no details he could testify to with perfect certainty, since they were disclosed by people who were (a) drunk and (b) prone to lying even when sober.

      “So, the plan is to drain everything dry and hide it where God himself wouldn’t be able to find it.”

Basically.

      “I don’t know for sure, sir.  I admit I didn’t pry for specifics…”

So as not to share a jail cell with the felons when they were sentenced.

      “… but I wouldn’t be surprised if that was far off the mark.”

      “And what’s your part in it?”

Crying.

      “Nothing!  They came up with this all on their own and I’m not a part of any of it.”

      “Now, you see… if it were me, I’d expect my part would be the look-out.  Send along the word when it was time to gather the sacks and visit the banks.”

Goodbye, Detective Constable Lestrade… it was nice knowing you…

      “Really, sir?  That’s… that’s rather complicit, isn’t it?”

      “If you get caught, yes.  You’re not planning on getting caught, are you, Lestrade?”

The snake should never go up against the mongoose.

      “No sir.  I don’t have any plans on warming a seat in a jail cell, sir.”

      “Then, let’s keep it that way.  I don’t think it would be considered unusual for a husband to try and use his wife as a way to hide money in case he was caught doing something the law frowns upon.  Nor do I think it would be considered unusual for a wife to take that money and run if the husband was a particularly reprehensible excuse for a man and had the police on his heels.  Some questions might be asked, a few inquiries might be made, but I wouldn’t expect anything to come of it.”

      “I… I suppose… that’s good?”

      “I would say so.  Not that you have any concern in any of this, of course.”

      “No… not any concern, at all.”

      “So, I know that if Mrs. Hudson is tipped off as to when to act, it certainly wouldn’t have come from you.”

      “Definitely not from me, sir.  Not going to involve the police in anything shady.”

      “Excellent.  Carry on, Lestrade.  You have a busy day ahead of you.”

      “Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.”

Lestrade watched his superior continue on with his business and allowed himself thirty seconds of hysterical hyperventilation before blowing out all the bad air and sucking in one large lungful of good, oh-thank-heavens air and leaning back in his chair.  Of course someone would have an eye on the accounts of the people under their microscope!  Add that to the things he was learning.  _And_ , add in the fact that he could never forget that the reason he loved this job was that he was able to help people and that climbing up the ranks didn’t necessarily strip a good copper of that motivation.  Maybe it meant bending the rules slightly now and then, but if it kept innocent souls from suffering when they didn’t have to, it was worth it.  Just couldn’t bend them _too_ far and become the type of person he was working to get off the streets.

Speaking of, hopefully, Sherlock was going enjoy his very first day of community service…

__________

Sherlock was _not_ enjoying his first day of community service.  Traitorous John and his refusal to use a falsified identification card and serve his sentence for him.  This was intolerable!  And Lestrade was positively insufferable when he revealed he’d had a word with whomever was in charge of assigning community service penances and gotten him a ‘plum’ assignment.  Yes, it wasn’t outside in the cold, but being condemned to the dank and forgotten basement of the police station to be bossed about by a sergeant in charge of files and evidence for inactive cases was nearly lethal. Oh yes, wasn’t he a special boy?  A special boy with special skills that could be very useful for the local constabulary; more so than if he was scrubbing graffiti or clearing away a heap of rubbish from an empty lot.  Mycroft practically clapped at his ridiculous lover’s pronouncement.  Stupid Mycroft.  And stupid John, while he was at it, siding with his idiotic brother and saying this was a blessing for which he should be thankful.  Surrounded on all sides by blatant stupidity!

And, now, more stupidity by which to be surrounded.  All these cases handled by stupid policemen, like Lestrade, who couldn’t solve a problem if one provided them with the answer in advance.  A quick browse through any of these files highlighted a hundred ways the imbeciles had botched the investigation.  At least his jailor was sufficiently perceptive not to argue with his obviously-correct deductions, in fact, the drone was at least provided with a sufficient level of intelligence to write down his conclusions, on the off chance, that someone’s overstuffed arse waddled down here to take up one of these cases and actually see it solved.  Hopefully it was Lestrade and his overstuffed arse as repayment for dropping him in this dungeon to begin with.  Stupid man.  The perfect partner for his stupid brother…

__________

Oh, joy… a visit by one of the many stupid people in his life.  This day was positively brimming with joy…

      “Look who’s still here in my place of work… I sort of expected to find Sergeant Higgins tied up in his chair and you run off for a cuddle with John.”

      “I should have done something similar, but the thought of Mycroft’s weeping and wailing if I compromised my community service turned my stomach.”

But, the building hadn’t burned down and no one had been stricken deaf by the lad’s shrieking, so it looked like Sherlock had, at minimum, accepted his fate and that was a victory in and of itself.

      “Well, we all have something that keeps us going, I suppose.  How are things, Sherlock?  Looks like you’ve made a good start getting this place tidied and organized.  I admit it doesn’t get much attention and things tend to clutter up a bit, but this is going to be incredibly helpful in case we get a little nibble on one these old, cold investigations.  It’s not good to get a fresh lead and you can’t find the original files or evidence because they’ve been misplaced by someone too busy and distracted to put things back properly the last time they were looked over.”

      “Slovenly police work… I am experiencing a surprise level of naught at that revelation.”

      “Not slovenly, you prat.  Just… overworked.”

      “What I _am_ surprised about, however, is that you were able to secure a convicted offender a posting in a police station.”

Yes, that _was_ an interesting thing, but he had his own skills when he chose to use them…

      “Why?  What better place for you to be kept out of trouble than in a building filled with people that will happily give you a thump on the head if you take a step out of line?  If you prefer, though, I can make a call and get you another service assignment.  There’s a group cleaning up the banks of the Thames this week, I believe.  Lovely and warm with that breeze blowing off the water stirring up the used condoms and crisps packets.”

      “If you believe your humor is robust, you are sadly mistaken.”

      “Well, that just means I have to try harder.  And… I _may_ have put in the word that your brother’s highly-fragile condition made it so you needed to be somewhere you could be easily reached and could get home quickly if you had to.”

      “Mycroft is no longer highly-fragile.  Or, at least, not _as_ highly fragile as he has been of late.  I should report your flagrant telling of untruths.”

      “Like mud, do you?  Good Thames mud filling those shoes of yours…”

      “I refuse to continue this conversation with an idiot.”

      “Thought so.  Anyway, it’s my meal break so if you’d like to see the sunlight, such that it is today, you can come aboveground for bite.  Mycroft packed a nice lunch for your first day at school…”

Made while giggling about how his brother was going to be nearly volcanic with irritation at having to actually _do_ his community service and with a certain DC looking over his shoulder to ensure he didn’t sneak away.

      “What, no bread and water?  Or a cold bowl of gruel?”

      “Well, if that’s what you want, I can check if there’s a gruel take-away restaurant nearby and place an order.”

Sherlock snorted loudly and threw the file he was holding onto the desk, marching away towards what Lestrade hoped was his own desk upstairs.  A quick wink and shared nod with the sergeant told him that Sherlock _was_ doing his job and the information was being passed along to the right ears so some of these cases might actually be given another look.  It had taken a little convincing, even with the exaggerated, near-death brother story, to get Sherlock assigned here and not what he was supposed to receive, but he’d promised it would be worth it and now he could send along some proof to show he wasn’t just trying for a little special treatment for a friend.  Besides, the havoc Sherlock would wreak on a standard community service job would make the judicial arm question the continued existence of the program.  Really, he should get a medal for his forward-thinking…

__________

      “Ah… the valiant warriors have returned home.”

      “I must wash the disgust off of my skin.  Do not expect to use the bathroom for at least a fortnight.”

Sherlock barreled into the flat, raided the bedroom for some of his clothes and slammed the bath door behind him.

      “London still stands, so I assume my brother had a productive day.”

Lestrade smiled widely and strolled towards his lover, who was just starting to investigate the kitchen for dinner ideas.

      “He had a _very_ productive day.  Got more than a few leads on some frigidly cold cases that merited tossing those cases back into play for another hard look.  Some won’t go anywhere, but if even a few cases are resolved, that’s a great help.”

Mycroft embraced Lestrade warmly and wondered if he would ever find the extent of the depth of his love for this man.  He certainly hoped not, for the seeking was such a pleasant thing…

      “Thank you for this, Gregory.  He may not appreciate it at the moment, but I truly believe he will come to find interest in the time and how it is being spent.”

      “I think so, too.  When I collected him to come home, he didn’t snarl at me more than once or twice, which was quite the improvement over when I booted him down the stairs in the morning.”

      “Excellent.  And, now, we might enjoy a relaxing dinner and soothe his humors for his return tomorrow.”

      “Is John joining us?”

      “Not tonight, I’m afraid.  He took an additional shift for a colleague who was feeling poorly.”

      “Then we’ll have a fight on our hands for any soothing of humors.  John’s become a professional at cooling Sherlock’s crazy when it begins to run amok.”

      “That he has.  And how delightful it is that he does not appear poised to abandon his newly-found abilities and leave my brother to our tender mercies.”

      “It is _fantastically_ delightful, which is why I haven’t knocked his head for leaving dirty socks on the floor and stealing clean pairs of mine.  And how was your day, love?  Anything I can look at?”

Mycroft grinned shyly and pointed to the canvas on his easel, laughing as Lestrade bounded over as if he was chasing a stray £1000 note.

      “Oh, Mycroft… this is amazing…”

It was a piece that had taken a long time to render properly, or, at least as properly as any painting could ever be rendered, and Mycroft was very content to bask in his partner’s obvious pleasure with the piece.

      “It’s Sherlock, right?  You sketched something like this in hospital.”

A portrait that did not contain the subject, but portrayed the subject through evidence of their nature.  Symbols of his brother, both good and ill, promising and discouraging, meshed together into a visual collage that, he’d hoped, screamed his brother’s identity to the world, not that anyone who did not know Sherlock would ever be aware of it.

      “That I did.  I have often sketched my impression of my brother, sometimes from a kind perspective and sometimes from an unkind one, but this is the first time I have felt sufficiently courageous to commit something to canvas.  It is not a flattering portrait, in many ways, but Sherlock is an incredibly complex individual and I hope that message is clearly broadcast by the piece.”

No, it wasn’t flattering in a lot of ways, what with glimpses of Sherlock’s drug use, temper, petulance, self-absorption… but it was just as rich with images of the lad’s intelligence, talent, blossoming heart, threads of insecurity and perceived lack of control in his life that made the negative aspects understandable, if not acceptable.  It was an unflinching portrayal of Sherlock and the honesty absolutely took Lestrade aback.

      “You’ve been thinking about him a lot lately, haven’t you, love?  Some deep, hard thinking.”

Of course his dearest Gregory would discern his motives and inspirations for the piece.

      “I have.  And I have tried desperately to remove my standard lens and let others take its place.  I love Sherlock with a power which has welded that love to every cell of my body and I know, without question, that it shall never leave me.  It cannot, it is simply not possible.  But, I have worked these past days to set aside my overpowering urge to display nothing _but_ that love in my work.  It is my natural tendency, to let the feeling guide my brush or pencil and produce something that ends there, with an image of a brother’s love.  That is something I will paint, likely, many times in my life, but this piece… this piece begged me to go further.  I am gratified that you see that in the work.”

      “I do.  I know how much you care about Sherlock and, when you draw him, that affection just leaps off the paper.  This is more… truthful.  You didn’t hold back and that’s what makes this so powerful.  I don’t really know what to say besides I’m positively awestruck.  This is one of your best, I think, and that’s saying a lot because you have produced some amazing paintings.”

And it would, Lestrade hoped, be one that his artist discussed with his therapist during their next appointment.  Twice now, Mycroft had been asked to bring his latest work with him and this one would surely spark some interesting discussion.  Not that that was the most important thing, of course.  The _most_ important thing was that his artist was painting and drawing and was warm, safe and fed.  Interestingly, he hadn’t talked any more about going back to his spot, though, there was something in his eyes that said the idea was still very much tickling his brain.  Maybe his Mycroft was doing as much painting as he could while he fully recovered and then planned to go back on the streets, but if that didn’t happen, there was one Detective Constable who would be very happy for the fact.

      “That is very kind of you, my dear.  I admit the piece was a difficult one, but I, also, am very pleased with the results.”

      “Going to show it to Sherlock?”

The twinkle in Mycroft’s eye said he’d given the idea some thought, then quickly tossed it out the window into the bins.

      “I think it is best that this one remain our little secret for now.  Fortunately, my brother does not trouble himself to investigate my latest creations, so I think my efforts will remain safely away from his eyes for the time being.  Someday, yes, I will let him see this piece and we shall, I am certain, talk about what it portrays, but that day is not today.”

      “Of course not!  He won’t be out of the shower for a fortnight, remember?”

Mycroft walked over and gently swatted Lestrade, who marveled again how much better his artist was moving.  And without his knee brace, too.  At least for short strolls and toddling around the flat.

      “I do.  And he is quite the villain for it because I had hoped to monopolize the shower myself.”

      “Remind me and we’ll make a schedule so everyone can have their monopoly.  Oh, and I have some news for you.”

The DC took his artist’s arm and escorted him back to the kitchen counter so they could start dinner and kept his silence just a moment longer for dramatic effect.

      “My inspector found out about your little playacting with the banks.”

Mycroft gasped softly and a well of sorrow and guilt built in his eyes, making Lestrade quickly regret his own bit of playacting.

      “Oh no.  Oh, Gregory… I am so terribly sorry.  Did it… you were not punished for our actions, were you?  I shall give you our letter of responsibility to present him and…”

      “Hush, love… it’s alright and I’m sorry for making you think it wasn’t.  He’s not angry about it, so don’t worry anymore, ok?  Remember, he’s got connections to that neighborhood and knows Mrs. Hudson.  I think he’s happy that she’ll be looked after in all this and when it’s time to give her the signal, it’ll probably be from him that I get the word.  I think this is something else we can keep from Sherlock, though.  No good letting him think that he can do as he pleases and there’ll be a blind eye turned towards it.”

As Lestrade had suspected, Mycroft eyes lit up with satisfaction and smiled his contented, and relieved, smile.

      “Such a gladdening thing to hear.  That shall make our efforts all the more effective.”

      “I think it was your sketch that tipped the balance.  Man nearly fell over seeing that sketch for his mother-in-law.  I think he was imagining a quick and simple thing, not something colorful and rich that you could frame and put in a gallery.  If I ever get in trouble, I’ll just have you draw something and hold it up while I’m being shouted at so that I walk away without a scratch.”

      “Gregory Lestrade, you will not misuse my art for your own diabolical purposes.”

      “Just a little diabolicalness?”

Pack away your luminous grin, you incomparable man or we shall never see dinner prepared.

      “Oh very well, perhaps a soupcon.”

      “That’s my Mycroft.  Always looking out for me.  And I may have stopped and gotten a film you’ve been wanting to see for after dinner, too, as a little thank you for being… well, you.”

      “You are, as ever, most considerate, my dear.  How difficult was it to convince Sherlock into a classic, black-and-white film as our evening’s entertainment?”

      “Easy, once I promised to give him enough money to take John to a pub this week.”

      “Your mind is absolutely as ravishing as your beauty, Gregory.”

      “That’s why we’re perfectly matched.”

Something with which Mycroft had no issue agreeing.  They were frighteningly different people, yet there was no one in the world more suited to him that the man now kissing his cheek with an incalculable measure of affection.  And if Sherlock made good on his promise, they could have a few additional kisses before dinner was served.  And these would grace far more than his cheek…

__________

A nod.  All it took was a nod.  Well, that and a meeting of the eyes that certainly held intent.  They’d been working like slaves for the past couple of weeks, with him missing dinner as often as actually being there with his artist to enjoy it, but… there was the nod.  His inspector walked right out of that hush-hush, closed-door meeting and gave him a nod for which there was no mistaking the meaning.  And, as soon as all the highly-decorated people scattered off to get their respective balls rolling, he was on the phone.

      “Hello?”

      “Mycroft, it’s Greg.”

      “Gregory, how delightful to hear your voice in the middle of the day.”

      “And, this time, it isn’t to tell you I’ll be late.”

      “Then, my day is now supremely blessed.”

      “Actually, this is going to make it better.  Is Sherlock home?”

      “He is, at that.  As is John for, apparently, his flatmate is being particularly odious today and he found himself in need of sanctuary.”

      “Good.  That’s really good, because… it’s time.”

      “Pardon?”

      “It’s time, love.  Get Mrs. Hudson and start emptying those accounts.”

The silence on the other end made Lestrade hope he hadn’t given his love a heart attack.

      “Now?”

      “I don’t know exactly when the net is going to close, but it can’t be long now and I, honestly, wouldn’t wait.  There were some very serious and slightly smug faces that just left a meeting, so I suspect things are going to happen quickly and we do _not_ want to arrive to the party after it’s over.”

      “No, you are quite correct.  I shall set matters in motion immediately.  Thank you, Gregory.  And, I am most certain Mrs. Hudson extends her gratitude, also.”

      “Be careful, though, love.  Please don’t overexert yourself.”

      “I shall do no such thing, for I will expect _you_ to overexert me tonight after you return home.”

This was the most perfect man in the world.

      “And you _will_ get what you’re expecting, I promise you that.  I have to go now, but I’ll talk to you later.”

      “Very good.  I love you, Gregory.”

      “And I love you.”

With the click of the receiver on its base, Lestrade knew the plan was in motion.  If he wasn’t being hailed from across the room, he’d sit a minute and rub his hands together like some kind of supervillain.  Oh well, Mycroft would probably do that for him…

__________

Mycroft rubbed his hands together gleefully and took time to savor the moment, before making his own phone call to someone who nearly burst with excitement when she got the news.  Now, they just had to collect her, provide company for the day’s work, have another celebration to commemorate the victory and wait for the curtain to fall.  Some days were bad days, but others were good days.  This one was truly one of the latter.

      “Kindly gather your jackets, gentlemen.  We have work to do.”

Sherlock and John looked up from the television and stared at Mycroft, who was smiling at them in a way that made both of them worry.

      “Work?  You do not even know the meaning of the word, Mycroft.  Artists are allergic to work.  They acquire a plethora of symptoms such as hives and death, if even presented with the concept.”

      “Amusing, Sherlock.  But, we _do_ have work to do for we have been visited by the word of authority and must now meet Mrs. Hudson for the terminus of our endeavor.”

That perked up the younger men and both got a gleam in their eyes that warmed Mycroft’s heart.

      “It’s time?  Is that what you’re telling us?  Was that Greg on the phone?”

      “Yes to all, John.  And _my_ call was to Mrs. Hudson so she might don her prettiest frock for our banking activities.”

John jumped off the sofa and dragged Sherlock vertical before grabbing their coats off the hooks by the door and staring at the un-coated Mycroft with his best ‘well, let’s get moving’ expression.

      “Such enthusiasm.  I am certain Mrs. Hudson will be equally jubilant.  Sherlock, if you would find for me a coat and gloves…”

      “I am not your valet.”

      “No, but you _are_ closer to the bedroom.  And my knee brace, as well.  I anticipate this being a lengthy day.”

Sherlock snorted loudly, but complied, and it was only a few more minutes before Mycroft was ready to leave, with some of his and Sherlock’s now-misnamed household funds in his pocket to make their day a comfortable one.  He would need, very soon, to start contributing to the new vault of household funds, but that was a worry for another day.  Today, there was lunch to purchase and the inevitable wine and, likely, cake to acquire.  In all the time he and Sherlock had lived in London, they had never had what one would call a party, but now they had both reason and a residence that could successfully host one.  He had never expected, in his life, for something like this to happen, but now he would fight tooth and nail to keep it.  As well as the people who had made it possible.

__________

_A long day_ proved to be a woefully inadequate description.  There was the voluminous paperwork to complete for every account they drained or, at least, severely depleted and another mountain of it to conquer for every new account they opened.  As it stood, Mrs. Hudson was a well-off woman and he, Sherlock and John were doing nicely, themselves, as they each held one or more new accounts in an effort to make the money harder to find in case any interested party went looking in the coming months.  With the stop for refreshments and the final shopping for celebration supplies, they didn’t arrive home long before Lestrade strolled through the door, fatigue written on his features, but smiling brightly.

      “And what do I see when I drag my carcass home?  A gang of felons drinking wine and giving me the ‘call for Thai, Greg, and make it lots’ faces.”

      “Yes!  Oh, wouldn’t a nice bit of Thai be lovely?  The Mr. has a sensitive stomach, so I get so little of it.”

Lestrade grinned at Mrs. Hudson and thought she looked absolutely radiant with happiness.  Someone had enjoyed a pleasant day.  Likely with a safe, bags of cash and three doting escorts being dragged behind them…

      “Man works all day and doesn’t even get a kiss when he comes home.  What has this nation come to.”

Since he was slightly ‘happy’ from their libations, Sherlock got up and gave the DC a kiss before grabbing another bottle of wine from the kitchen, much to the other inebriates’ amusement.

      “Well, that’s better.  One phone call for dinner coming up.  And, I take it, the day was a success?”

Four people trying to answer at once was really its _own_ answer, but Lestrade let the cacophony go on for awhile, before nodding sagely and smiling back at the sea of grinning faces.

      “Well done, then.  Definitely a night for a celebration.”

      “Any idea when the evil old thing is going to hang, dear?”

      “No, Mrs. Hudson, that I don’t.  But, things _are_ moving, so if you have a relative you’ve been hoping to visit, now might be a good time so you stay well out of things.”

      “Oh, that’s a good idea.  I’ve been saying I need to visit my sister and that won’t look suspicious when I pack a bag.  It’s usually I visit her or she visits me and my husband far prefers she not visit me.  I’ll make a start on that right away.  Well, not right away because I’d miss my lovely Thai food and I’m certainly not doing that.”

Lestrade bit back the laugh seeing his artist pat Mrs. Hudson’s hand quite supportively on the Thai food issue and pour her another glass of wine.  There was nothing cuter than his artist, floating on a cloud of wine, happy and relaxed.  But, he deserved it.  He deserved every bit of it and more.  Cake, for instance.  Which was undoubtedly in the refrigerator.  Thai, cake and wine… followed by a night of lovemaking that would make Sherlock wish he didn’t have ears.  Definitely time to look for a new flat… one with thick walls… and close to wine merchant and bakery…

      “No, that would truly be criminal.  I’ll make a start on that and why don’t the rest of you… relax.  Hard day of breaking the law really takes it out of a person.”

And, in the midst of the impassioned agreement, Lestrade turned toward the phone and let his face break into the largest grin of the night.  His family might be a loony one, but they were a loving, loony family and that was all that really mattered.  Now, they just had one more matter to deal with and a few ugly doors could close behind them for good.  And, that particular matter would be especially sweet to bring to a close…


	43. Chapter 43

      “Good heavens, Sherlock!  You would swear that the end of days was approaching and you had to prepare a sheet of excuses for your misdeeds.”

Sherlock made a very familiar rude noise and Mycroft rewarded him with an extra piece of toast.

      “It is nearly as terrible, so I fail to see your amusement at my predicament.”

      “The beginning of the new term is not, I believe, one of the recognized signs of the Apocalypse.”

      “I suspect a more thorough perusal of the ancient writings would show that it was.  And one of the more troublesome, at that.”

With the continuing drama of the past weeks, the start of the new academic term had completely slipped the Holmes brothers mind until certain mail began to reach their new address that prompted a panicked flurry of preparations that both Lestrade and John had a very enjoyable time observing.  Apparently, Mycroft saw his brother as a small child readying himself for his first day of school and Sherlock was most content to live up to those expectations.

However, as Lestrade and John also noted, it was another step towards returning the brothers’ lives to what could be called ‘normal.’  Mycroft’s physical condition had improved to the point where being home all day alone wasn’t a concern and the usual pattern of his and Sherlock’s routines were returning, something which obviously brightened the artist’s spirits.  Of course, the elephant in the room was the artist’s _own_ return to his outside-of-the-home pursuits, but until Mycroft raised the subject, nobody else was going to say a single word.  Right now, Mycroft was working on his art, attending his therapist appointments, showing some progress with increasing the size of his meals and that was more than enough for now.  It was, actually, in Lestrade’s opinion, more than enough, period.  His artist working all day, unburdened by the weather or trying to convince people to stop for a sketch… that was fantastic, to his mind, and if the situation never changed, he certainly wouldn’t complain.

      “Have you your books and materials?”

      “John obtained them yesterday.”

Mycroft experienced zero shock at the revelation.

      “Sherlock… John is not your servant and I am most certain he is not able easily to absorb the expense.”

      “John was to have lunch with a colleague and they met near the college, so it was more efficient for him to make the purchases than for me to make the journey from my indenture in the dungeon of Lestrade’s workplace.  Which, thankfully, shall see the last of me precisely three days from now.”

The gleeful light in Sherlock’s eyes made Mycroft chuckle and he was simply thankful that his brother had served his sentence with, really, a minimum of fuss and had not met with the expected fate of being tossed out the door in a burlap sack so the station could return to its typical peaceful and functioning state.

      “Gregory has been very grateful for your assistance and I know that he will be sorry for your absence, despite the rather colorful and tempestuous nature of your presence.”

And that was the absolute truth for, behind their bedroom door, his lover praised Sherlock’s work and abilities in nothing less than glowing terms and would be very sorry to lose access to Sherlock’s keen mind and talent for observation.  And, in Mycroft’s opinion, because he actually enjoyed Sherlock’s company and was glad for time they could spend together.  His Gregory had somewhat of a paternal streak, as well, despite his young age and it had attached very strongly onto Sherlock, much to Mycroft’s extreme content, for the more caring attention directed at his brother, the better.

      “If I am to do his work for him, Lestrade should pay me for my effort, for I have never before found myself in need of a wage and it is not to my liking.  However, though it is rather despicable of John to necessitate that I have money on hand to fund my share of our social time, I am being magnanimous and failing to point out that fact.”

Of course, elephants in the room do have a habit of trumpeting at the least opportune time and when the least opportune people were there to hear it, so Sherlock could be forgiven for scowling thunderously when his brother set down his tea and began to speak.

      “Yes, you are truly a generous man.  Along that line, though, I should be able to supplement your allowance in the very near future to help fund your mandated social-activity payments, for I have decided it is time to return to my space by the garden and the income it provides.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened and Mycroft braced for the response.

      “That is a stupid decision.”

The familiar tunes are the most special.

      “I parry with ‘that is a wonderful decision.’  Since my vote is the only one counted towards the final tally, I believe I win.”

      “Why on Earth would you want to go back onto the street like a beggar to cajole the even more stupid public into purchasing one of your scribbles?”

      “Because it is the right thing to do.  While you and Gregory make active contributions to our household, I do not, which is a situation that been abhorrent since its onset and has not diminished in shame in the ensuing weeks.”

      “You are addled.”

      “No, I am most clear-headed.”

      “Wrong.  Define ‘active contribution.”

      “Something that specifically and directly promotes the upkeep of our home and the well-being of those who live within its walls.”

      “Evidence!”

      “That I am in the right, yes.”

      “That you are stupid and addled, yes.”

      “Defend your position.”

      “You have taken on some of the household tasks such as cleaning and cooking, though Lestrade sloughs off his natural lethargy when he is present.”

      “My share of such work is minimal compared to…”

      “Do not attempt to quantify in my presence for, as an artist, you scarcely acknowledge the existence of numbers, let alone the various formulas and procedures for putting them to productive use.”

      “I believe even my feeble grasp of mathematics permits basic counting.”

      “Your belief is wrong.  Did you not prepare breakfast?”

      “I did, however…”

      “Did _I_ prepare breakfast?”

      “No, but…”

      “Did Lestrade?”

      “This is becoming ridiculous.”

      “I agree.  You are a tremendously ridiculous person.”

Mycroft sighed and shifted slightly in his chair.

      “Very well, Sherlock.  Answer me this.  Who purchased the food for the breakfast?  As well as the dishware and the utilities to see it cooked?”

      “Lestrade.  He provided the materials and you built the product.  Each of you contributed your skills towards the result.  Therefore, you cannot claim to be non-contributory.  I believe you even prepared _Lestrade’s_ morning meal, as well as his lunch.”

      “It is not the same, Sherlock.”

      “It is not the same only because you choose to believe that.  I do not make a financial contribution to our affairs, yet I do not believe myself to be parasitic.  It is only through my vigilance and companionship that you have reached this level of recovery and, further, kept Lestrade from falling further into mental stagnation and career doldrums.”

That, at least, brought an invisible smile to Mycroft’s lips.  Sherlock had actually been more contributory to their family affairs than he had ever witnessed, though his methods may have been more colorful and contentious than the societal norm.

      “Which, I am certain, Gregory highly appreciates, as do I.  Did it not occur to you, though, Sherlock, that I might _want_ to work?”

      “What occurs to me is that you want to _paint_.  Or draw or whatever else you have in your box of craft supplies.  Your so-called work is simply that, though people throw coins at your feet to reward your performance.  If you desire, I am certain that Lestrade would purchase rolls of coins to pitch into your cup if that is the factor you are missing while working in the flat.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “Do you deny that the quality of your work is enhanced when you work on a piece with the full of your focus and not when you ply your craft with the various distractions provided by trying to lure victims into your snare?”

No, that was not something Mycroft could deny.  When he had time, long stretches of time to focus and feel and let his art fill him completely with no distraction… his art reached its apex.  His work was good when he was out in the world soliciting customers, but it was not what he could create when that work was the only claim on his soul.

      “No, and it would be dishonorable to lie for the sake of argument. My art… even in our humble flat, was much enhanced by those rainy days when I was at home, alone, and had hour upon hour to devote solely to my painting.  Here… it is much the same, though the vibrancy of this space, with the new dynamic that we have created and share with those we love… I, also, cannot deny that my art has seen a rejuvenation.  I have reached to heights and into depths from which I once hid and now, only now, feel comfortable to explore.  I will not deny that I have found, for lack of a better term, nirvana; but I will also not deny that it is a nirvana bought at a price I am not happy to pay.”

      “Payment through trade is, historically, a valid means of compensation.  You trade services, Lestrade pays in cash… there is equity in that arrangement, if you are not too stubborn to recognize and acknowledge it.”

Helpful, supportive Sherlock was of the rarest variety and, frankly, Mycroft had little in his arsenal to manage this endangered species.

      “I find it perplexing, brother dear, that you would be content with my days being those of what you would term leisure, while you return to the toil of academia.”

Sherlock squirmed in his chair and wished his brother would simply agree with his opinion and leave the matter alone, but no… Mycroft, as always, had to be difficult.

      “While I do not retract my copious and entirely correct assertions that art is a frivolous pursuit… it is a pursuit that seems to require notable effort.  Effort requires time, it is as simple as that.”

Mycroft could not remember Sherlock every saying such an accepting thing about his art and, if this was even a week ago, when his emotions were still brutally difficult to control, there would be tears streaming down his face.  As it was, it took a few moments to clear the choked feeling out of his throat to offer a response.

      “I see.  And I shall consider myself another grateful recipient of your magnanimity, along with Doctor Watson.”

      “As well you should.  And you may show your gratitude through garroting your foolishness so it no longer lingers to plague me.”

      “My, how savage a tone you can evince when properly inspired.”

      “Pray you have no need to experience it again.”

This time, Mycroft’s smile was very visible and met with the tiniest one from his brother.  This battle was by no means over, but… it could rest for now.

      “Such shall be the basis of my night’s meditation.  I would ask, though, that you not forget to take what funds you require to pay for your academic supplies and return them to John.”

      “For your information, I supplied him with the money beforehand, specifically to forestall any misplaced guilt on your part.”

Now, that was unexpected.  And, surprisingly, thoughtful.

      “I am most impressed by your forethought.  And, now, we return to the original topic of our conversation… are you ready to again begin your studies, brother dear?”

      “Why would I not?”

Extreme emotional upheaval, establishing new priorities in life, seeing new opportunities and possibilities open wide and beckon…

      “I’m certain I do not now know; I was simply making myself available for conversation on the topic and to lend an alternate opinion if there was a specific point that bore discussion.”

      “It is nothing more than the return to classes.  Boring, banal classes… as I have done before and shall do again.”

      “My, how scintillating you make it sound.”

      “It is the polar opposite of scintillating.”

Mycroft watched his brother move the remainder of his breakfast around the plate and thought about a conversation from a time he would greatly love to forget.  The time, that is, not the conversation.

      “In hospital, Sherlock, you revealed that you felt you had lost your choices in life and that the direction of your education might not be the one you would ultimately prefer.  I agreed that you could shift your focus, if that was your desire and it is to my discredit that I have not again take up this issue with you and we now find the new term upon us.  However, I am still very open to that possibility and am committed to doing what I can to ensure your feet are on the path that you would most choose to follow.”

Sherlock stopped shuffling his breakfast and stared at his brother for so long, Mycroft wondered if he was wearing part of his own breakfast on his face.

      “We could not afford such a thing.  My scholarship is not an unlimited one.”

      “I will find a way.  Perhaps you would take a slightly slower pace so that the cost was spread over a longer period but you can rest assured that, if needed, I would commit myself to whatever employment I could find to defray that cost.  I will not again make the mistakes of the past, Sherlock… perhaps that is why I am so anxious to do some good for our family.  I fear that I shall backslide further into selfish stagnation and not provide to you, and to Gregory, what you need in order to have the life you want.  Have you given any further thought, yourself, to the issue?”

      “I… I was not entirely certain you were serious.  It was an emotional time and it would not be unexpected for you to say things that, in hindsight, you might view differently.”

      “I do not view anything differently, nor does Gregory.  Your future is vitally important to us, Sherlock, and if your current course of studies does not satisfy, then let us see what else might be offered that is more to your taste and hopes for the future.”

Sherlock sighed loudly and leaned back in his chair, but didn’t seem as if he was hoping to see the conversation end, so Mycroft pushed on.

      “Perhaps this term you find a course that offers interest, even if it is not within your degree field.  If your scholarship would not cover the cost, I am certain that between Gregory and I, we can muster the funds.”

      “I am allowed a non-specified course option, on occasion, but have tended to fill it with courses that are narrowly tied to my field.”

      “Then, perhaps, you might use it this time to your advantage to explore something new.  Does anything come to mind, now that your thoughts are turned in that direction?”

It was good to see Sherlock actually think about an answer, rather than simply toss out a response to hasten the end of a conversation that made him uncomfortable and Mycroft mentally-promised his brother a slightly more indulgent and less nutritionally-balance lunch than was his original intent to pack.

      “There are some that are of interest.  My newly acquired access to both John and his work has piqued my interest somewhat in aspects of anatomy and physiology.  I have held _some_ interest in the subjects previously, but with additional time and opportunity for self-study, I find that I would not be averse to learning more.  The same could be said for toxicology or pathology.  Reading the slovenly forensics reports of our so-called law-enforcement agency has, again, sparked a curiosity in how the contributing fields should actually function if they were not being disgraced by slow-witted gibbons.”

      “Good!  That’s very good, Sherlock.  A chemist with coursework in those areas should easily experience a widened job market.  Might you slot one into your schedule for the coming term?”

      “It might be possible, if there is space available with the current enrollment.”

      “Then I encourage you to do so.  If that is not feasible for this term, I shall gladly obtain for you whatever books you might desire to read from the library.  I am certain that, for your scholastic purposes, our new living arrangement will offer quite the benefits, as it has my painting.”

      “Reading _is_ a more enjoyable pursuit when one’s fingers are actually warm and limber enough to turn the pages.”

      “Yet, perhaps it is because we have known the reverse that we are able to appreciate how joyful can be such a simple thing.”

The expected rude noise warmed Mycroft’s heart and it was with regret that he pointed to the clock, which signaled it was time for Sherlock to make ready for his own tour of duty at the police station.

      “Glorious.  My secretarial post awaits.”

      “I doubt that a secretary would have such a keen eye for detail and investigative… shall we say missteps.  Gregory is most proud of you, Sherlock and I know that he has enjoyed your presence during the day.  I believe he has grown accustomed to your visits at his desk when you feel the need to remind him of the competency level of his peers.”

      “Which, if he, himself, possesses a modicum of intelligence, is being carried forward to his supervisors so they may begin filling the dole queues with recently-sacked police personnel.”

      “Yes, he says your little jests and displays of wit are the brightest spots of his day.”

      “Finally, he demonstrates some mote of perceptivity.”

Sherlock rose from the table and pushed his plate imperiously towards his brother before strolling to the bathroom to make a start on the day.  For his part, Mycroft cleared the table, taking note of the number and severity of the various twinges that accompanied his movements and pronouncing them more than acceptable.  There was still pain in some of his most troubling areas, but it was nothing compared to what he had suffered early on in his journey.  And he was learning how to mix rest and motion so that his knee didn’t have a stern word with him at some point.  He hurt and would for some time, but it was manageable and that was something he did not take lightly.

__________

For instance, he could take a walk, as desired.  Not that he had shared with his family the fact that he was occasionally sneaking out of the flat for a constitutional, but what they did not know, could not bring them worry.  He was not entirely stupid, though, so his brace surrounded his knee and he went neither far nor fast, however, to be able to do this… to be free to walk and soak in the vibrancy of the city… it was a balm to his soul that he could scarcely put into words, though he joyfully presented it on canvas.

Today, he thought it not imprudent to take his stroll to a slightly more rigorous level and it was some time later that Mycroft found himself standing in the space that his easel and box had occupied for so long.  It was truly a lovely spot, peaceful and, in spring and summer, the public garden offered the bountiful inspiration of nature.  Already his fingers were itching to pick up a pencil or brush and begin working.  But, they would do that if he were at the flat, as well.  His short strolls had also filled him with the energy and inspiration to work and, returning home afterwards, the full focus of his attention could turn to the task.

But here, the ebb and flow of light and stimulus was endless.  The dynamicity was fantastic!  And he felt part of it when he was here, recording even small snapshots of it in the portraits of the people caught up in the flow.  However, there was nothing to say he could not come and sit in the garden or take a seat at a café and enjoy the same for awhile, though without the need to drag himself away from it to earn his wage.  He could allow himself the luxury of experience and not tarnish it with the demands of money.  And, not only here… there was an entire city at his disposal to wander and study…

Mycroft finally took himself a short distance for a cup of tea and wished the answer would simply arrive like a thunderbolt from the heavens.  He liked his work, that was not a lie.  He enjoyed being out here, meeting the challenges of each customer and enjoying the atmosphere and energy of London.  But, he also enjoyed being in the flat and dedicating himself fully to his art.  Even _he_ realized the shift in intensity and depth of vision in the pieces he had been producing.  True, much of that was because of his… personal difficulties… but not all of it could be laid at that doorstep.  Much, also, was the freedom, the unencumbered, blissful freedom that he had found in the place he now called home.

And that freedom was given gladly, supported in all ways by the man he loved.  Only yesterday, Gregory had returned home to find him lost in his work and did not begrudge the lack of greeting, nor the continued silence until the grip of his art relaxed and he was returned to the world of flesh and bone to find his love merrily preparing dinner and humming along with the radio.  His Gregory _believed_ in the work.  Saw its importance and encouraged with unflagging effort.  And it was not Gregory who was asking for monies towards the rent or groceries.  No, his partner asked for nothing but that his artist be happy and allowed to create.  How many in this world could claim such a thing?

      “Oh, it _is_ you!  Hello, dear.  How are you?”

Mycroft snapped out of his reverie and looked up from the table into the smiling face of his former neighbor.

      “Mrs. Turner, hello.  It has been a long time, has it not?”

Taking that as an invitation, Mycroft found himself joined by a guest at his small table and smiled at the unexpected surprise.

      “It has!  And, look at you… your young man said you were doing better so you must have been a terrible fright when you had your accident!”

Never had his noticeable condition brought as much of a smile to Mycroft’s face.

      “You are quite right, but I a much recovered and able to, once again, traverse the streets, albeit with some assistance.”

Mycroft shifted slightly and patted his knee brace, to the commiserative gasp of his visitor.

      “You poor thing.  A dodgy knee is nothing to take lightly, either, so I’m happy to see you taking proper care of it.  Oh!  And I want to thank you for that lovely drawing!  It’s beautiful and everyone, simply everyone, comments on it when they stop in to say hello.  I’m glad to see your talent wasn’t hurt by being off your feet for awhile.  Just a beautiful thing, it is… are you planning to put up your easel again next to the garden?  If you are, I know quite a few people who would stop to ask for something from you.”

Today was an especially-fortuitous day for a stroll, now wasn’t it?

      “I am very happy you enjoyed the piece.  It was truly a delight on which to work and I am ever available for any bit of work to come my way.”

      “Of course, with your talent, you shouldn’t be out there in whatever the weather selling your sketches for pennies.  I’m sure your Greg isn’t happy about that, thinking of you working so hard with all of your ability.  Like magic it is and he knows how rare something like that is in this world.”

Apparently, especially-fortuitous meant continuing his internal debate in an external forum.

      “You would be correct in that.  Gregory is most hopeful that I shall forsake my wage-earning and concentrate simply on my art.”

      “He’s a good one, your young man.  Always willing to help a lady when she needs it and so polite… I’m not surprised he would rather see you happy and doing what you love, than trying to snatch a few quid from surly folk on their lunch hour.  Such a good heart that one has… if my husband wasn’t alive, I’d snatch him up myself!  I may do it anyway, because the Mr. certainly isn’t getting any younger, though when he _was_ young… still makes my heart flutter to think about it.”

Mycroft laughed and had no doubt that he would be just as in love at Mrs. Turner’s age as was the lady herself.

      “I shall guard Gregory jealousy, rest assured.  And he _is_ the most good-hearted of individuals, with a truly beautiful soul… it is partly for that reason, I suspect, that I am loath to accept his offer and remain at home with my work.  Such a person… it would be a crime to take advantage and part of me feels that is precisely what I would be doing.  Taking advantage of his generosity and loving spirit, when I have so little to offer in return.  The inequity of the situation is most unsettling.”

      “Silly thing.  If you couldn’t get by without him taking two jobs and getting two hours of sleep a night, then yes, you’d be a right bastard for not doing your part.  But, I know that’s not the case.  If you’re comfortable with what you have and if your Greg is happy with things the way they are, then don’t feel bad about it.  Life isn’t about money, Mycroft… it’s about happiness and it sounds like that’s what he wants for you, because he’s a good boy and so are you.”

Mycroft accepted the pat on the hand and let the words soak in.  Twice today he was hearing the side of the argument that he did not support and he could offer no rebuttal save the state of his conscience.  Of course, his conscience was not the most reliable source, given the decisions to which it had led him in the past.  Something he was working on with his therapist, along with the host of other issues that had him in their claws.

      “I thank you for that, and I do promise to take your words to heart.  I _have_ been far more productive with my painting in my new situation, something which was not so easily done when I plied my trade on the street.”

Fortunately, the possible second interpretation of that phrase was unknown to his tablemate, but it was yet another issue on his lengthy agenda during his counseling sessions.  Thought the acidy taste on his tongue and burning in his stomach when he thought of that part of his life would never leave him, he had real hope now that, one day, it would lessen.  And… part of him wondered if that was yet another reason he was rather desperate to return to his space.  Work and earn an honest wage without practicing his second profession to set himself on a new, more honorable path.  Selling himself was not the way the man he wanted to be earned a living, but, by staying home, he wasn’t _earning_ a living, at all.  Earning was the key word.  He felt a compulsion to earn his living, to show he was worthy of it.  Was that possible if he followed his heart and simply opened wide his arms and embraced his art?

      “Oh, that’s wonderful!  And that little smile you make every time you talk about it… you know what you want to do, lad.  You simply need to convince yourself that, sometimes, you’re allowed to have what you want.”

His problem in a very neat, very tidy package.

      “Anyway, that’s your business and I’m not going to put my nose in it.   Besides, we have other things to talk about.  Did you hear that Martha’s husband got taken away by the police?  My son-in-law won’t tell me any of the details, the useless thing, but it has the neighborhood curious.  Not that we didn’t know something was going on, but I’m sure you knew that too, living here for as long as you did.  I’m just happy that Martha was visiting her sister when it happened.  The poor dear… she would have probably started cheering, fallen down the stairs and broken her hip.”

Mycroft nearly spit out his tea from laughing and reminded himself that Sherlock might consider himself a master of observation, but he was still a novice compared to neighborhood elders who made snooping and surveillance their career.

      “I had heard something of the sort, yes, but Gregory also has been frustratingly closed-mouthed on the subject.”

      “Well, I’m sure when Martha comes home, we’ll have a nice talk   I’m not surprised she hasn’t rushed back, though.  Probably still has a bit of a hangover from celebrating the good news.  But, it’s good for the rest of us to have a bit of excitement.  Never did like that man very much, always felt there was something off about him.  Anyway, when I learn anything, you and I can have our own little talk.  Now, how is that brother of yours?  He’s one who can be a handful when he has a mind for it, isn’t he?”

Mycroft smiled and settled back in his chair to tell a few tales about his sibling, the handful.  Most especially would be spread tales of his devoted care to his ailing brother and his torrid romance with the doctor in charge of that care.  After all, the neighborhood needed to have it’s gossip mill fed on a regular basis and this was actually one time he was able to do something to sate the beast.  Sherlock would be so very happy…

__________

A few stern words were had with him by his knee upon returning home and Mycroft admitted that he had rather overdone his walk, taking time to walk Mrs. Turner home and then making the trek back to his new flat.  But, it mattered not.  What an enjoyable morning!  He often had not made himself available for conversation with his neighbors mostly due to the ever-simmering shame he carried in his heart, but now, that had changed and it had been a delightful hour taking in the various stories about those with whom he had shared a community.  He would likely never be a highly collegial man, it was simply not in his nature to feast on the camaraderie of others beyond those close for whom he dearly cared, but… it was good to know that he _could_ be collegial when the occasion arose.

Now, he had an urge not to paint, but to raise his knee to give it rest and take some time to read one of the many books currently stacked neatly by the bed or the sofa, since both Sherlock and Gregory appreciated ready access to the various titles that were currently occupying their attention.  It was a luxury of gargantuan proportions, to be able to use a day for nothing but the pleasures of the mind, but he felt the uncharacteristic desire to indulge himself.  A good walk, a good book, and nothing productive in his ledger to which to point to justify his slothfulness… his Gregory would be unutterably pleased and, today, he felt he could join in that pleasure…

Which was how Lestrade found his artist when he returned home and nearly did a jig seeing Mycroft reclining on the sofa with a book and no sign his art supplies had been used at any point during the day.  His Mycroft worked so hard on his art, something not everyone would realize unless they’d seen an artist pour everything he had into a piece, and it was good he took a break now and then.  Everyone needed a little holiday from work, but his Mycroft wasn’t the sort of person to follow that bit of advice very often.

      “That’s what I like to see… a gorgeous man with a book.”

      “Then I am ecstatic to have presented you a pleasing tableau.”

Lestrade tossed his jacket over the back of a kitchen chair and loosened his tie.  Solid, productive day of work and now a comfortable, relaxing evening at home.  The simple things in life were always the best…

      “Well, you did a smashing job of it, that’s for certain.  How was your day?”

Carefully lifting Mycroft’s legs, the DC slid onto the sofa and set them back down across this lap.

      “Most enjoyable.  I decided to use the time to recharge those of my reserves which had become depleted for this reason or that.”

      “Good!  You deserve it, love.  You work so hard, harder than I could ever imagine and it’s good you take a day to yourself now and then.  Did a lot of reading?”

      “Yes, actually.  I… I began my day with a rather long walk and picked up my book upon my return.”

Mycroft hoped his smile would work to erase his lover’s concerned frown, but, in this, he was sadly disappointed.

      “A long walk?  Mycroft, are you certain you’re ready for that?”

      “I believe I am still in possession of both my legs.”

      “Funny man.  You know what I mean.”

      “True and my humor was misplaced for I know you are worried for me and my heath.  To answer honestly, I will say that I overextended myself today, but that is a lesson I have now learned.  This was not my first solo foray out of the flat, but I have confined those previous instances to a far shorter duration and they were exceedingly successful.  For this one, I pushed my limits and… found them.”

      “So, my Mycroft’s been sneaking out.  Getting into any trouble?”

      “I have kept my pilfery and hooliganism at a minimum.”

      “And you promise me you’ve been taking it slow and easy?”

      “I give you my word.  I have come to know quite well that a lifetime of pain and impairment is not desirable if it can be avoided.”

      “Alright, then.  As long as you’re not doing yourself any damage, then I’m happy you’re getting out for some fresh air.  I have worried about that, actually.  I know what it means to you to get out and experience the city and the people for your art and you can’t really do that when you’re here all the time.  I’m glad you’ve been a sneaky bastard, but… I’m not so glad you thought you _had_ to be sneaky about it.  Did I… were you worried I’d get angry?”

      “Angry?  No.  Concerned, yes.  I knew you would worry and fret and, most certainly, do everything in your power to tend to the meal-making and tidying, for you would not want me to overtax myself after my walk.”

      “You’re probably right.  I’m a little bit loony when it comes to you, but I don’t mean it badly.  I just want you to get better and not suffer because of things I could have done to _keep_ you from suffering.”

      “Which is one of the many reasons I love you so dearly.  And you are correct that the breathing in of the city invigorates me and sparks those elusive flares of inspiration.  But, I have been mindful of my heath and it was only today that I was, perhaps, incautious, however… I wished to visit my spot by the garden and that is a longer stroll than I have heretofore attempted.”

Mycroft noted the slight shift in Lestrade’s features, but could not for the life of him interpret its meaning.

      “Anyone taken it?”

      “No, not that I would expect anyone to do so.  I was never in a position to have to fend off the encroachment of a competitor.”

Lestrade stretched out a little and forced the tension to bleed out of his muscles.

      “Then it’s still waiting for you when you’re ready to get back to work.”

This time Mycroft _could_ interpret his lover’s behaviors and loved him all the more for it.  Gregory was absolutely opposed to the idea, but would be supportive and encouraging because it was _he_ wanted.  Though that want had moved from a concrete thing to something more nebulous after today’s conversations.

      “That it is.  I believe that, quite soon, I will be physically able to return to my spot, even if it might be in a half-day capacity at the start.”

      “Oh.  Well, that’s good to hear.  Really, that says so much about how well you’re doing and I couldn’t be happier.”

Said through teeth that were certainly not gritted even the slightest bit.  Lestrade was sure of this because he was devoting every fiber of his being to making that the case.  He wasn’t going to be an arsehole and make Mycroft feel bad about wanting to go back to his spot.  It wasn’t caring or loving and his artist deserved better than someone who would try and tell his partner how to live his life.

      “As always, your support is my lifeline.  However, I have not committed myself fully to the idea and may yet decide against a return to work.  Or, at least, that particular form of work.  Sherlock and I discoursed this morning about his academic plans and it might be necessary for me to achieve a higher level of wage-earning.  Or not.  Really, matters are very up in the air at this point.”

As Mycroft detailed his conversation with Sherlock, Lestrade had to admit that it did shift the situation somewhat, but not in a way that impacted his artist, who still deserved some ease in his life.

      “I like the sound of that.  Sherlock has such talent and intelligence that it could be hard for him to find a job that fits him unless he broadens his horizons a bit.  I know Uni’s not cheap, but it’s not outlandishly expensive, either, so if he needs some extra funds to get those other classes and experiences, we can afford it.  We’re doing well on the budget I set, so with a few adjustments, we could manage.”

And those adjustments, Mycroft knew, would be entirely at his lover’s expense.

      “Gregory, I know very well what you would do to make this possible for Sherlock and you cannot take on alone the responsibility.  And, do not forget that we have intentions to move to a larger flat and that will significantly impact your budget, will it not?”

The look of chagrin on the DC’s face was answer enough.

      “Ok, maybe.  But, but we’re not there yet, and perhaps, we put that off awhile if it helps Sherlock get what he wants out of life.  He’s not dying on the sofa and, now that he’s out of the house all day, he’s not even underfoot with us or vice versa.”

      “Or, I find employment and enable us to have the proverbial cake and eat it, too.”

      “I’m not saying you can’t, don’t think I am.  I’m just saying we can make do without you working if you don’t want to.  That’s all I’m saying.  Doesn’t go any further.”

Mycroft smiled and reached over to take Lestrade’s hand.

      “And, as I said, I have made no decision in either direction.  There is still discussion to be had, I think, on this subject and we shall give that discussion all the time it requires.  Now, how shall we spend the evening?”

Lestrade cut eyes at his artist who smiled brightly in return, then began laughing, mostly at how happy he was with this ravishing, brilliant, artistic man.

      “How about just what we’re doing now?  You’ve got your book and I have one I’m in the middle of one that I’d like to make some progress on, so I’ll change into something more comfortable and we can have a nice night of reading.  I can put the radio on if you’d like to listen to some music, too.”

      “That sounds lovely.  I have been luxuriating in solitude and now I may luxuriate with you.  That, truly is bliss.”

The Detective Constable carefully wriggled out from under Mycroft’s legs and gave his artist a long kiss before dashing towards the bedroom to get into a proper outfit for luxuriating, while Mycroft gazed at the beautiful backside of the man he loved.  His Gregory truly did not care that his day had been spent in this manner and that was simply mind-boggling.  While his love toiled at his job, there was no resentment that _he_ had indulged himself to this degree.  And that tomorrow would be a day at his easel, scarcely moving from his stool until after the sun had set.  Mycroft knew he had no experience with relationships and had to admit that his preconceptions were formed form, perhaps, questionable sources because he could never have predicted that sharing a life with someone could be so profoundly enriching.

A book tonight, painting tomorrow and, for the time being, a focus on bringing himself back to health and scouring his soul for pigment to throw upon his canvas.  His spot was not going to vanish into the night like a thief, it would be there if he decided, at some point, to return.  But… for now, that thought might find itself slipping from his mind.  Not forever, but for the time being, it could be set aside for more important things.  The call of his art, the need to repair the person he was, the urge to provide for his lover the most joyful home and loving partner it was possible to give… those were of supreme importance and none required he set out his tin cup and beg for the chance to fill it with silver.

Mrs. Turner was correct… life was not about money.  Life was about so much more and, for the first time, he was able to see benefit from that philosophy.  He had lived a bastardized version for so long, trading his art and his flesh for the barest minimum to keep him and Sherlock alive, while taking the least time away from his passion.  Now he was being handed the greatest of gifts and, though he still struggled with feeling unworthy for such a thing, accepting it, at least for a time, did not seem as appalling as it had previously.  And, in any case, it was not irreversible.  He could return to work at any time he saw fit to do so.  That time was simply not now…


	44. Chapter 44

“The inanity is crippling me!”

John tried not to laugh at Sherlock’s drama, but it was _so_ hard because Sherlock did it _so_ well.

“Oh?Having a bit of trouble with that assignment?”

Now that the term was fully underway, Sherlock had taken to spreading his study time between Lestrade and John’s flat and, therefore, spread his theatrics to as wide an audience as possible.

“Trouble?The rigor and usefulness of this so-called learning experience is insulting and that my successful completion of the course rests partly on its shoulders is ludicrous.”

“Don’t think it will be any different with a job, either.I swear that half of what I do in my day is ridiculous, but you can’t not do it because it’s part of the job.Simple as that.”

“That is staggeringly inefficient.”

“Nature of the beast, I suppose.”

“Then I reject the beast in its entirety.”

“Oh good, I’ll pass that along to Mycroft and Greg.They should know now that you’ll be living with them the rest of your life so they can start stocking up on scotch.”

“Ugh… I cannot possibly think of a more horrifying fate.”

“Really?I’d think living with the monkeys at the zoo might be slightly worse, but that’s just my opinion.”

Sherlock snorted, but filed the conversation away for further consideration.Unfortunately, from what he had observed for John, Lestrade and others, John’s assessment was correct.Every avenue of employment was rife with stupidity and inefficiency and the thought of languishing in that quagmire for eternity was intolerable.As much as it pained him to admit it, Mycroft’s foolishness was the closest he had observed to the ideal work situation.He, at least, did not have to slog through layers of bureaucracy, manage paperwork, answer to individuals who were less competent in everything but sycophancy than was he…Of course, the other side of the coin was an irregular, paltry wage that could scarcely keep a housefly alive.Scylla and Charybdis… it was completely unfair for someone with his vast scientific talent and intellect.

“The monkeys are likely more quiet in their fornication, so it might be a welcome change.”

John laughed, but did a bit of his own filing away of information.After a particularly grueling therapy session a week ago, Mycroft had not responded well to Lestrade’s nighttime advances and, apparently, the force of his not responding well had cooled the physical nature of their relationship to iceberg level.It was good to see things returning to normal… Greg was feeling _very_ guilty for what was not, ultimately, his fault and Mycroft had been feeding on that guilt like fine chocolate, which was not at all a good thing for his patient.

“When you fail to respond to one of my humorous statements, it is an indication you have become lost in thought.You are thinking about their sexual crisis, are you not?”

“Not in quite those unsettling terms, but yes.As well as he’s doing, Mycroft is still my patient and I’m concerned for all aspects of his health.Do you… are they doing better in that area?”

This was not something Sherlock wanted to discuss, but John would pout if he refused and a pouting John was not likely to become an amorous John and he had something of his own hopes for the night that a non-amorous partner would not facilitate.

“I believe so.I have not been privy to their conversations, but there have been a number of them, which have not left either Lestrade or my brother in what would be called ‘good shape.’But, it has been of the same sort of shape I have observed for them when their pain has been of a productive and forward-moving nature…”

So, talking about it and, probably, the issues raised in therapy that were the crux of the problem.Yeah, that would leave anybody wrung out and hurting, but it had to happen or Mycroft would never heal.It was good of Sherlock to understand that, too.Sometimes, John knew, he forgot that Sherlock was integral to Mycroft’s issues and that these things stirred up his own partner’s feelings, even if he did a tremendous job of not letting them show.

“… After two nights apart, Lestrade returned to their bedroom and, as of yesterday morning, he left with the insufferably smug smile he wears when they have engaged in some form of sexual interaction that morning or the night before.”

“Good.For as terrible as it might be for them, it’s actually part of the whole healing process.Your brother is going to have episodes like that from time to time and it sounds like Greg is doing the right thing – giving Mycroft the space he needs to calm down and work through his emotions and lots of time to talk to make his actions and feelings understandable.It’s also going to reassure Mycroft that he’s not permanently hurt their relationship, which, I can assure you, sits right at the front of his mind in the aftermath of something like that.I’m sure that’s going to form a big part of his next therapy session, so he’ll get to process the situation even more, which will also be a big help.For all we can do for him, a real professional can do even more and I’m happier than I can tell you that Mycroft consented to and continues to value his therapy and attend his appointments.”

Something that had actually surprised Sherlock, who had secretly believed that Mycroft would go once or twice and pronounce himself cured.It would have made Mycroft much happier, on one hand, but… even _he_ could not deny that his brother’s suffering during some of his therapy visits was a sacrifice for a long-term and highly important goal.

“Anyway, speaking of the happy couple, we should get going soon.Can’t be late, now can we?”

“We are meeting Mycroft and Lestrade for dinner at one of the cheapest restaurants in London.If we are late, I highly doubt our reservation will be in jeopardy.”

“It’s your _favorite_ Chinese restaurant, so don’t sound so high and mighty, Sherlock Holmes.Besides, Greg is paying, so if we’re late that’s less we can eat on his shilling and I, for one, plan on doing myself proud.”

And, though Sherlock wouldn’t understand it, this was an important night.It was a couples thing and doing couples things meant you were a real couple with some… permanence.And that was good.That was very, very good because he was enjoying being a couple with Sherlock.They might not be a typical couple, but they worked.They’d already been through a lot and they still worked.Tonight was sort of a milestone, even though they’d spent a lot of time with Greg and Mycroft before, and he certainly didn’t want to be late for something like that.

“Must I be cordial?”

“If you want egg rolls you should be.”

“Drat.They do make exceptional egg rolls.”

“Then lets make certain our hair is combed, our teeth are brushed and everything’s cordial so we get lots.”

“Very well, but do not expect me to engage in idle chitchat with Mycroft.”

“I’m sure he’ll be content with a little peace and quiet.So, finish up with your inane learning experience and we’ll get going.”

“If I expectorate on the paper, it will undoubtedly be astronomically-superior to anything else submitted by the drones that occupy seats in the lecture hall.”

“Well, get on with it and I’ll have a quick shower.”

Sherlock watched John roll off the bed and hop to his feet, grabbing a change of clothes on his way out of the bedroom.Setting aside his work, Sherlock then, lay back and thought about what he had _been_ thinking about since Mycroft’s… setback.His brother had suffered the most horrific things, yet still treasured his sexual relationship with Lestrade.He was devastated, for lack of a better word, when he found himself incapable this past week of accepting  Lestrade’s touch, no matter how gently it was given.And Lestrade was patient throughout, though whatever Mycroft said or did that first night hurt him so miserably he had no ability to hide the fact.He didn’t abandon and he didn’t retaliate… he understood, supported and waited patiently until they worked through the problem and the issue was laid to rest.

John had also been patient.John understood, supported and waited patiently, never pushing or pressing for more than he could find it in himself to give or receive.They had shared _some_ intimacy, but little more than their first time together and… it was no longer enough.Not for him.John, he knew also wanted more and… now he felt ready to give it.

Performing his own roll off the bed, Sherlock shook away all of the lingering anxiety and, then, all of his clothes before marching to the bathroom, turning back around to the bedroom to get a set of the extra clothes he kept at John’s flat and nodding to John’s flatmate who watched him walk _again_ , naked, to the bath.One more deep breath and he opened the door quietly, closing it just as quietly when he was on the other side.

“John?”

Perhaps a softer tone would have been more appropriate for the situation as John’s yelp and the flight the soap over the shower curtain indicated some degree of surprise.

“Sherlock!What… what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.I… may I join you?”

Sherlock stood there in the silent room and wondered if, this time, he had spoken too softly and John didn’t hear, because an answer was not forthcoming.At least not for a worrying number of moments.

“You want to come in here with me?”

“Was that not what I indicated?”

“No… I mean, yes!Yes, you did, I just…”

Perhaps this was not as good an idea as he had hoped.

“If you would prefer I not…”

“No!No, I’m… I’m more than happy to have some company.”

Wet, naked company was always high on John’s list of things to be happy about and wet, naked Sherlock sat fairly well in the number one spot. Pushing back the curtain, John moved back a little to allow Sherlock to carefully and very slowly make his way into the tub, feeling the butterflies flutter in his stomach at the sight of the very lean, very naked man standing in front of him.

“There is very little room.”

“Uh… yeah.”

“Perhaps this was a mistake.”

“No!No… nothing wrong with a tight fit.Nothing at all… ummm… here.See?Close means easy to wash, now doesn’t it?”

John refused to admit he was in panic mode and, as gently as he could, began rubbing soap over Sherlock’s chest, using all of his senses to catch the first flicker of unease, but, so far, his all seemed to be well.At least, he hoped that’s what Sherlock’s closed eyes and slightly hitched breath signified.

“You really are a stunning man, Sherlock.”

That got Sherlock’s eyes open, if only to observe John for any sign of lying.

“No, I’m not lying.”

John was not often highly perceptive, but, when he was, it was at the most infuriating of times, in Sherlock’s opinion.

“I’ve always thought you were an incredibly striking man and now… seeing all of you… I recognize I didn’t know the half of it.”

And seeing wasn’t the only thing John could do right now, though taking it slowly was of supreme importance.A wandering hand to soap up Sherlock’s flat belly, two hands stroking down the lengths of his partner’s thighs, staying away from all potential trouble spots… though how his hands got around to run across that tight arse of Sherlock’s he would never know.Not that his showermate seemed upset by the fact.Well, his penis wasn’t upset by it or it wouldn’t be standing up to wave a cheery hello.

“May I… well, I am certain you hadn’t finished washing and…”

Flush of pink on the cheeks… if Sherlock was any more gorgeous, John thought he might be blinded by the sight.

“Feel free to soap up whatever looks like it needs it.”

Never taking his hands off of Sherlock, John slipped him the soap and continued to let his fingers slowly wander as Sherlock explored the very new territory under his touch.And with Sherlock successfully occupied, John’s hands could be a bit bolder in their exploration.Well, maybe not _bolder_ because he was very content to continuing fondling Sherlock’s exceptional bottom from now until Doomsday.It fit perfectly in his hands…

“Am I… is this correct?”

“Hmm?Oh, absolutely.There’s no ‘right’ way to do any of this Sherlock.It’s all about what feels good and makes you and your partner happy.And I can tell you that what you’re doing feels very good and is making me _very_ happy.”

“That much is evident.You have an erection.”

“Well… so do you.”

“Ah, yes… that is true.”

“And it’s a stunning one, if I may say.”

Sherlock cut eyes at John, whose cheeky smile drew one out of the student and made him feel much more relaxed about the whole situation.

“You may.”

“You have a stunning erection, Sherlock Holmes.Simply breathtaking.”

Deciding the door had been opened, John slid his hands around and gave that bit of breathtaking a slow slide of his hand, feeling only slightly smug at the gasp he received from his attention.

“And I do like to see with my hands as well as my eyes.Tell me if you want me to stop, though, Sherlock.I won’t be angry, not in the least.”

Right now, though, asking John to stop was the last thing on Sherlock’s mind as he was beginning to tremble from the pleasure he was experiencing, pleasure that was far more profound and intense than any he had felt, even from his own tentative explorations in sensation.

“Th… that is good.”

“I’m glad.How’s this?”

John returned one hand to Sherlock’s bum and drew closer so he could lay soft kisses along the skin of his partner’s chest and shoulder.Sherlock had wonderful skin.Perfect for touching, perfect for kissing… and the skin under his slowly-stroking fist was especially pleasant since it lay over something diamond hard that fit beautifully in his grip.

“Please, John… stop.”

He wouldn’t say it didn’t disappoint him, but John immediately stopped what he was doing and gave Sherlock’s chest a quick nuzzle with his nose to keep the moment light.

“Not a problem.Now, why don’t you bend over a little and I’ll give those curls of yours a wash?”

“No, you misunderstand.I...”

Sherlock’s face was a whirl of confusion, frustration, uncertainty and a host of other things that left John as off-footed as his partner seemed, himself, to be.

“Sherlock?”

Another small pause that made John’s heart stutter and he only could hope that Sherlock didn’t bolt from the tub, taking the curtain with him.The stupid thing would _not_ be cheap to replace.

“If you continue, this will end quickly.”

End quickly? _Oh_ … his Sherlock was already on the edge.Taking a peek downstairs, it _did_ look very much like he was and that  was the highest compliment a man could be paid, when wet and naked was involved in the situation.

“Got it.Well, then… care for some turnabout is fair play?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion until John wriggled his hips slightly and the light went on.

“Oh… of course.”

John expected a tentative and hesitant approach, but was shocked to find his lips taken in a burning kiss and Sherlock’s hands all over his body as if his… lover… had been desperate to do this, but had his hands tied behind his back and now the tie was well and truly cut.And those hands were definitely _all_ over his body, in the loveliest possible fashion…

“Holy hell, Sherlock…”

“Is… is that good?”

“It’s very good.Like you born to do this.Especially when you do _that_.”

“This?”

“Oh, yes… that is an especially happy th…thing.”

“How about this?”

John’s answer wasn’t actually a stellar example of verbal communication, unless you consider a long, low moan informative.Fortunately, Sherlock did.Apparently, this sex business wasn’t hard at all if you actually paid attention and had _any_ talent for observation.

“Excellent.Then you should appreciate…”

“Fucking fuckity fuck!Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Observation, intelligence and logic.It appears I shall be a superlative sex partner for you.”

Despite the bone-rattling pleasure, John had to laugh and decided that Mr. Superlative should get a little of his own back.Yes, a bit of play right there and watery goes his majesty’s knees…

“I will orgasm if you do that again, John.”

Today really was the day of compliments, wasn’t it?

“Then come here and make sure when you do it gets all over me.”

John dragged Sherlock’s head down for a kiss to begin tending to all the sensitive regions that were within his reach, using his hips to urge Sherlock to quicken the pace, so when he did do _that_ again and Sherlock’s prediction came true, he was only a step behind and with a shout that half the building probably heard.And he didn’t care.

“That… that was amazing.Bloody hell, Sherlock… that was simply amazing.”

John had to tap Sherlock on the head to bring the student out of his trance and smiled at the blissfully-satiated look he was wearing on his face.

“Is it… John, is it always like this?”

“Fast, filthy and hot?No, sometimes it’s slow, sweet and hot.Or rough, sweaty and hot.I could go on.”

Sherlock struggled to kick the pleasured haze out of his head and found it highly resistant to his efforts.His brain seemed very content to luxuriate in the wash of chemicals that was doing a highly effective job obscuring his rational thought.

Sherlock… is this something… do you think this is something you would want to do again in the future?”

John crossed his toes, because his fingers were back to caressing Sherlock’s skin and really didn’t want to be disturbed, especially if the news he was about to get wasn’t good.

“I calculate the probability of this being repeated as… high.”

“High?”

“Very high.”

Which married quite well with John’s own mental math, much to the doctor’s delight.

“Then, I’d say great minds think alike.”

Sherlock snorted at John’s jaunty smirk, but agreed completely on this particular score.If his irritating brother wouldn’t be completely insufferable if they failed to attend dinner, the second round of sex would begin as soon as they could make it back to John’s cramped, but serviceable bed.

“And, with my great mind, I predict you’re thinking that we skip dinner and stay in for the night, aren’t you?”

Apparently, John’s mental prowess was enhanced by sexual satisfaction.That was something to keep in mind for the future.

“No.”

“You don’t lie very well, just so you know.But we do have to be there, so I suggest we use the shower for its intended purpose, while we still have hot water, and not offend Greg and Mycroft with the smell of very naughty things.”

Though John would actually be thrilled to do just that.He wanted to scream from the rooftop about his good fortune and let the waft of testosterone provide the proof that he’d finally had sex with Sherlock Holmes.Good sex, too!Not awkward, embarrassing sex, but the kind that… well, the kind you wanted to brag about and tell your dinner companions that you had to make it an early night for some fake reason they probably wouldn’t believe, but fuck them.Another go at the gorgeous man currently covering his body with lather was worth any raised eyebrows or missed fortune cookies.Ok… they could take the fortune cookies with them…

__________

“Stop looking at your watch, Mycroft.You knew they’d be late, they’re late, and fretting isn’t going to make them get here any sooner.”

Lestrade held up a piece of the dumpling he’d quartered and popped it into his artist’s mouth.Mycroft seemed to eat better when his portions were small and if you kept handing him little things, you could get a fair amount of food down his throat. Which was why, to his great relief, Mycroft was filling out his clothes far more successfully than he had before, though there was still a long way to go before he was back to his normal weight.No… he wasn’t going to set that as the goal, because Mycroft’s normal weight was still too low.There should be some softness on that lean frame and he was going to have a delightful and delicious time making that happen, dumpling by dumpling.

“I shall be surprised if they even remember.”

“John will remember.A night out with good food, good drink and good company… that’s not something he’ll want to pass up.But, he’s got to move the immovable object, so have pity of the poor lad.”

“True, Sherlock avoids social situations like a biblical plague, but John seems amenable to, at least, a night’s entertainment with us.I must say that I find the situation a refreshing one.Sherlock and I rarely sought out the company of others and, now, I must say it is something I have grown to enjoy.At least within our immediate circle.”

“My Mycroft’s not the social butterfly?”

“Heavens, no.When the situation calls for it, I am the epitome of charm and grace, however, such situations are not those in which I eagerly hope to find myself.”

“Well, I’m thankful for that!I do like my evenings out with the lads for a pint or two, but I’m not one to be out every night of the week looking for a party or sweating in a club.Spending time with the people I care most about and having a quiet night at home… that’s the thing for me.”

“Then we are, as always, incredibly well-matched.”

Another quarter dumpling between his lover’s smiling lips and Lestrade marveled again at how wonderfully life had treated him, dropping this amazing creature right into his lap.No, it wasn’t easy sometimes, but nothing good ever was.And the rewards were indescribable…

“I completely agree.Now… Mycroft?Love?Are you ok?”

Lestrade stared at the artist, who was, himself, staring silently and open-mouthed, then followed Mycroft’s eyes towards Sherlock and John who were just entering the restaurant.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s response was to pluck a whole dumpling off the plate and shove it into his mouth, as if he was trying to do everything possible to block any potential sounds, let alone words, that might try to come _out_ of that mouth.

“If Mycroft is going to stare stupidly for the entirety of dinner, I am leaving.”

Said with a sudden whisper of color dotting his cheeks that intrigued Lestrade as much as Mycroft’s fugue state.

“Love, if you’re going to stare, stare intelligently so Sherlock doesn’t have to leave.”

Mycroft snapped out of his trance and chewed to get the dumpling into manageable shape to swallow and transferred his response to a death grip on Lestrade’s knee.

“I… do pardon me.I simply remembered something about a painting that I shall need to remedy.Hello, brother dear.Please, have a seat and fear not for being chased from a lovely meal on my account.”

Now, the look on Mycroft’s face was something completely different and Lestrade wondered if he was going to have to pull Sherlock up from under the table, since the boy seemed to be sliding in that direction under what was now his brother’s gleeful and knowing grin.

“John, want to help me with this?”

“Not really.”

“Thanks for that.See if I order that spicy beef you love so much, you twat.”

John took a seat, hoping beyond hope that Mycroft’s grin didn’t mean what he thought it meant and settled in for a convivial couple’s dinner. _With_ spicy beef.

“You will, because you love it as much as I do.Don’t point the gun if it’s not loaded, mate.”

“Bollocks.You’re right.I did make a mess of that and ALL because my partner over here didn’t step in to keep an eye on me.Bad form, love.”

Mycroft tore his gaze away from the ever-reddening Sherlock and smiled warmly at Lestrade

“Again, I must offer my apologies, but my attention was elsewhere.I shall, as they say, make it up to you later.A wonderfully energizing shower, perhaps?”

Now, John was joining his partner with a rosy color palette and the DC started to feel an itch in his brain that he’d very, very much not like to scratch. At least, not until he and Mycroft were alone later so they could discuss the matter in all its glorious and grisly detail.

“Sounds good to me.So, Sherlock, how was school?John, how was the diseases and hemorrhoids?”

Lestrade gently loosened Mycroft’s attempt to turn his leg into dust and gave the artist’s hand a pat to show he was a few steps behind but catching up quickly, and very much approved of what he was catching up to.And, it looked like Sherlock and John were deliriously happy for the defusing of the social hand grenade…

“Had a good day handling plague, thank you very much.The boils and sores always keep the job exciting.And Sherlock got his homework done before we came out, so… I MEAN, Sherlock _didn’t_ get all of his homework done before we came out, so we might have to make it a slightly early evening.”

Smooth, John… you’re so smooth oil wouldn’t slide on you.Idiot.Look at Mycroft with that smug smile.Was it wrong to want to punch a patient right in the face?Probably, but wanting wasn’t doing, so Greg had no cause to make any arrests before the egg rolls arrived.

“Gregory and I quite understand.Sherlock’s scholastics are of the utmost importance and it is good to know he is remaining diligent about his studies when he is away from our watchful eyes.”

“My marks are always of the highest order, whether your nosy eyes are involved or not.”

“Can eyes be nosy?I would rather think that was the function of another facial feature, but you are the more highly educated of us both.”

John took a page from Lestrade’s book and popped one of the remaining dumplings into Sherlock’s mouth, before motioning over who he hoped was their server for Lestrade to burden with the rest of their order.Good food, good drink, good company… no harping, no sniping and no knowing smiles across the dinner table.Actually, now that he thought about it, this was exactly what happened when family got together, so let the games begin…

__________

With referees matching combatants number for number, dinner ran as smoothly as it did when it was eaten in Lestrade’s flat, but that was good enough to keep other patrons from walking out or demanding they be escorted off the premises and by the end of the meal, Mycroft was awash with the most exquisite feeling of contentment at this very simple piece of normalcy.An evening with family, much as so many of the tables surrounding them… it was positively enthralling.

“Someone’s enjoying himself.”

And the most enthralling element of them all was sitting at his side, smiling with a warmth the sun would envy.

“I would be a fool to deny it.”

“And my Mycroft’s no fool.You know, my expertise in eating on the cheap could make this a regular thing if you’d like it.”

It was the mark of the other half of one’s soul to know your thinking as well as you did yourself.

“I would.I would enjoy that greatly.”

“Then, consider it done.When we can catch the two lovebirds with an evening free, we’ll have a nice dinner out, maybe a few drinks.Bring Mrs. Hudson along, too, if we can drag her away from her active social life.”

Mycroft laughed and had to concede it might be a task of no small effort.

“She has blossomed most brightly, has she not?”

“And your old neighbors think it’s brilliant.Everyone’s aflutter about how she’s getting out and about, having people in for cocktails… having a husband held without bail is good for the soul, it seems.”

“I believe you are correct.And, might we be so fortunate as to celebrate his continued incarceration?”

“I wish I knew for certain, but that’s up to the courts now.From what I’ve heard around, though… the case is a very good one.I don’t think she’ll have to worry about him showing up and spoiling cocktail hour for quite some time.”

“Excellent.She is supposed to visit soon and I am certain there will be stories aplenty to share.”

“Why are you whispering!You and your concubine have the manners of convicts.”

Sherlock’s paranoia was a joy to behold.

“Actually, you touch upon the subject of our huddled conversation, brother dear.We were discussing the status of Mrs. Hudson and her loathsome spouse.”

“Oh.Well… that is boring.”

And completely off-topic of his little brother’s deflowering, which really was the only thing about which Sherlock cared.That conversation would certain be had far away from tender ears and with a celebratory glass of wine in his hand.

“Would that not be your expectation, given it is a conversation between Gregory and me?”

“True.I failed to consider the source.Since you are now devolving into your typically-dull evening conversations, John and I will leave to avoid infection by your unimaginativeness.”

It was only through tightly holding Lestrade’s hand that Mycroft found the strength not to burst out laughing.

“Yes, that must vex you terribly.By all means, do scamper away and find other ways to amuse yourselves this evening.I am certain you can devise something very interesting to keep you entertained.”

The heat of Sherlock’s glare would keep Mycroft warm on many a cold night.

“John demands the remaining beef to take home.”

“Gregory says no.”

“You cannot speak for Lestrade!”

“Hypocrisy colors you a distasteful and disappointing shade of kumquat, brother dear.”

As the battle over the leftover food began to mount, John and Lestrade decided to have the _actual_ battle while the generals sat there and flung words, as generals were apt to do, and had everything divided and packaged before their partners caught their second wind.

“There we go, love.Put the swords away and how about we stop on the way home for a little something sweet.There’s that shop you like not far from here if you think your knee’s up for it.”

Mycroft had insisted on leaving his brace at home, but Lestrade was not about to toss away his artist’s recovery for a stupid walk for pastries.

“I believe I can manage it handily.Sherlock, John, do not let us keep you.”

Which was Sherlock’s signal to grab the doctor out of his chair and drag him towards the exit.

“Gregory…”

“Mycroft?”

“My brother…”

“Did you come to some important and life-changing conclusion about our little Sherlock?”

“Oh yes, and I am positively giddy over the fact.I was not entirely certain it would happen, my dear, if I am to be honest.Sherlock has suffered so much and his personality is not a naturally-affectionate one…Poor John, he has waited so long and so patiently, however, I believe he was most satisfied with his experience.”

“No question.If Sherlock hadn’t dragged him out of here, I think John was about thirty seconds from doing it himself.Think they’ll see the outside of John’s bedroom again any time soon?”

“Hmmm… I would be most cross if Sherlock failed to attend his classes in the morning due to carnal activities, but if it does not become a habit, I feel I can overlook his truancy a single time.”

“Very magnanimous of you, love.And I’ll get the full story out of John so we can really have something to chew on.”

Lestrade sneaking away with John for a commiserative pint had become another of the household rituals that Mycroft held tightly in his heart.And, he suspected, it was both of their way of keeping close watch on the health and well-being of the Holmes brothers, something he found he minded far less than he would have expected.He had closely guarded his privacy and secrets for so very, very long, but knowing they were being discussed by those that cared and wished to help was not as upsetting as he had anticipated it to be.

“Good, for Sherlock, I have no doubt, will fail to share any pertinent details with me.That he knows _I_ know has already discombobulated him profoundly.”

“Silly of him to think he could put anything past you.My artist is brilliant _and_ observant.”

Lestrade gave Mycroft’s thigh a rub under the table and nodded towards the door with a look of what he hoped was anticipation for their own sexy evening in his eye.Luckily, Mycroft _was_ brilliant and observant and gladly took the hint.

“I find that a very agreeable suggestion, my dear.The day has been a long one and rife with the most delicious surprises.I believe that a tad more celebration is in order.”

“One celebration coming up.Here, let me give you a hand.”

Always solicitous and mindful of his health… Mycroft knew that John was supremely well-matched for Sherlock but could not conceive that anyone in the world could have the degree of good fortune that he had gained when he met his Gregory.And chivalrous to a fault, carrying the take-away containers as would any gentleman of worth.Of course, this painted himself as a fair and delicate maiden, but, as it kept his hands free from any potential stray sauce or oil, he would wear the mantle proudly.

__________

John needed a larger bed.Or he needed a larger bed.Or, rather a bed of any form at all.

“Sherlock, can you possibly stop wriggling?”

“That was not what you asked of me last night, John.”

John started giggling and turned around in his little-spoon position to give Sherlock a kiss.

“Damn right I didn’t.You wriggle very nicely under the right circumstances.”

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes and felt a very unfamiliar surge of emotion roll around in his stomach.He never put stock in fantastical concepts such as luck, but John was a powerful argument for the concept and one that he was simply not able to rebut.He was lucky. _Very_ lucky, actually. To have met someone who found him an acceptable companion and then gave him the time and understanding to navigate these highly unfamiliar waters… there was no logical explanation for this good fortune, but he hesitated to speak against it, in case it was removed from his grasp by the Fates or Fortunes or whomever had given him this gift.

“And, now, what is the appropriate ritual?”

“What?”

“I thought there were routines and rituals associated with the so-called ‘morning after.’ “

“Oh!Well, there’s some truth to that, I suppose, though, they’re usually based on who you sharing the morning after with.If it’s someone you don’t remember from the night before, for example, it’s a very different story than for a person you not only remember, but are looking forward to morning aftering with again.And, yes, before you ask, this is very much the latter situation.”

John should not be allowed to read his mind like that.It wasn’t proper.

“Then, what are the requisite steps?”

“Hmmm… again, it depends.If we didn’t have things to do this morning, it would be relax a moment, then do something that wasn’t very relaxing but _was_ very enjoyable, followed by a shower and breakfast.This morning, though, I think the shower and breakfast bit is about all we have time for.”

“I am more than happy to skip breakfast for an additional measure of the very enjoyable.”

Apparently, John thought, once Sherlock made a decision on an issue, like sex, he became its champion.Not that that was a _bad_ thing, of course…

“You might be able to go without food for a year or two, but I can’t.Depending on the day, I might not have the chance to sit down for some lunch until it’s nearly dinner time, so breakfast is a must, I’m afraid.”

“Your fortitude is most disappointing.”

“That’s not what you were saying last night.”

A grin slipped across Sherlock’s lips and, again, the word ‘luck’ danced through his mind.

“Touché.But, we shall shower first, correct?”

“You’re getting the hang of your naughty grin pretty quickly, Sherlock.I’d say you have a talent for this.”

“Are you implying that _I_ was implying carnal activities in the shower?”

“I’m not implying anything, because you _were_ and it’s a simple fact.”

“Oh, very well.I was simply trying to be efficient.”

John had to admit that sex in the shower _was_ an efficient way of combining two morning activities and doctors should always strive for efficiency.

“Ok, but we have to hurry.”

Though, by hurry, John hadn’t meant Sherlock bolting out of bed and darting towards the bathroom naked as the day he was born.That being said, efficiency was the watchword of the morning, so laying here thinking it was a really stupid thing to do when wet, naked Sherlock was only a few steps away…

__________

“Why is there no tea?”

Sherlock was very lucky Mycroft had just started to work on his current painting or he would have missed the almost-greeting completely.

“Because the tea fairies have yet to pay me a visit.”

“You are an artist, which is disappointing enough.Kindly do not try your hand at comedy and make yourself even more dreary.”

“I would retort that you should not even be here to endure my dreariness because this is certainly not your college.”

“My first class was cancelled.”

Mycroft knew his brother well enough to spot the lie, but Sherlock rarely lied about such things, so decided to pursue the situation a little more closely.

“Oh, well that is fortuitous for you.I suppose that gave you extra time to linger over the breakfast table with John.”

“John _does_ enjoy a large and hearty breakfast.”

“He is, perhaps, part Hobbit.”

“What?”

“Never mind.Your selection of reading materials as a boy left much to be desired.In any case, I see you have chosen to use your unexpected abundance of free time to pay your brother a visit.That is very good of you, Sherlock, as I have had few opportunities to bask in your glory of late.”

Which was somewhat Sherlock’s intent because his brother had either been completely absorbed in his art, and the dark thoughts that fueled it, during the day or working through those dark thoughts with Lestrade at night.Neither was a scenario where he could see his presence being a beneficial thing.

“John’s company is far less detrimental to my well-being than is yours.”

“I have little doubt.”

Why was everyone being improper this morning?Mycroft’s ridiculous eye twinkle should be illegal.

“Stop twinkling at me.”

“I can honestly claim to have no idea how to reply to that.”

“Further evidence of your artistically-dulled wit.And, for your information, I simply wished to… obtain a fresh set of clothes.”

Though the clothes he was wearing was not those of the night before and appeared quite clean to Mycroft’s eyes.Perhaps his brother would reach the actual point of his visit sometime this century.

“Fresh clothes are certainly a joyful thing and behold!I am wearing my own set in a fortunate incidence of synchrony.And they are, I believe, a more handsome set than yours.”

Sherlock could never ignore a challenge and could often be led to informative things because of it.

“Your clothes are fit only for scrubbing floors and fit atrociously.”

“From your perspective, perhaps, however, Gregory found them most suitable when he left this morning.He commented upon them favorably, in point of fact.”

“Do we truly need to review Lestrade’s sense of either color or style?If your outfit has his blessing, that is proof enough it is a damned thing fit only for the depths of hell.”

“There is some precedent for your viewpoint, I concede, but if Gregory blesses my humble attire, then he will also bless the _removal_ of said humble attire and that is a very welcome outcome, by my accounting.”

Ah… the small glimpse of uncertain hopefulness in Sherlock’s eye.Apparently his personal issues had not been lost on his brother, though, perhaps, it had been foolish to hope that Sherlock had missed the strong stench of shame and self-hate that had permeated the flat like mustard gas.Actually, he had thought Sherlock absent for the initial, inciting event, for he had indicated he would soon be leaving for his laboratory when he and Gregory went to bed, but, in truth, he had never given a single thought about the fact that his beloved’s eviction from the bedroom _might_ have had a witness and Gregory would have had to face Sherlock and deal with the aftermath of the assuredly-audible altercation.How typical of his Gregory that not a single mention was made of this fact… well, best face the issue directly.That was generally the best way with Sherlock…

“If you are curious, brother… Gregory and I have successfully moved past that particular problem and have restored our physical relationship to it’s former, glorious, degree.”

The flicker of relief and, dare he say it, happiness, mixed in with Sherlock’s expected disgust was a joy to witness.

“If you are trying to commit my murder through the avenue of projectile vomiting, you are currently on the correct trajectory.”

“Excellent.I do value your objective critique of my methods.Now, shall I relieve the tea fairies of their obligations and prepare a cup for us both?I have scarcely begun for the day, yet a bracing cup of tea does sound delightful.”

“Then, why are you still perching on your stool like a pigeon?”

“It is good for my circulation.And the pertness of my bottom, if Gregory is to be believed.”

Thank heavens the milk was well-protected in the refrigerator, for proximity to Sherlock’s painfully-contorted expression would surely promote curdling.

“Your boasting is decidedly stomach churning.”

“One boasts when one has something about _which_ to boast, brother dear.”

“Incorrect.John is not a boastful individual and his buttocks are both firm _and_ well-sculpted.”

And now we come to our feature presentation.Dear Sherlock… how easy you are to lure into a snare…

“Really?I would think the doctor’s more sedentary lifestyle would tend him towards… flabbiness, instead.”

“There is only a miniscule amount of unnecessary fat on John’s body!And that quantity makes him, if anything, more aesthetically-pleasing when nude.”

“I see.The situation is much the same with Gregory.And that does impart a delicious degree of softness that makes prolonged, intimate contact all the more agreeable.”

“Lestrade’s embarrassing form can, in no manner compare to John’s!John’s body is supremely agreeable for…”

Sherlock’s brain finally slammed into the steel bars of the trap his brother had set and the level of fluster building in the student was something Mycroft would gladly have paid money to view in the cinema.

“We will speak of this no further.”

“Speak of what?Though, if there was something of which to speak, I would insert into the conversation, at some point, an honest and eager congratulations for the step you have taken.One, I suspect, you have long wanted to take.I could not be happier for you, Sherlock, I truly could not.In a hypothetically-speaking sense, of course.”

Sherlock waved off Mycroft’s smile, but drank in his brother’s words like a good wine.Of anyone, Mycroft would know what last night meant to him and… there was some degree of _something_ in knowing his brother approved.

“None of which is garnering me a cup of tea.”

“No, it is not.How inhospitable of me.”

Mycroft finally moved to make tea and accepted Sherlock’s lack of response for what it was – acceptance and gratitude.His brother was not easy for the average individual to decipher, but for the practiced, he was as transparent as glass.

“Should I bother to ask on what you are currently working or may I assume it is, as usual, something both tedious and frivolous?”

“Oh, it is certainly nothing of interest to you, but you may take a peek if you like.”

An assent that was, in truth, a tremendously-large gamble.Not even Gregory had been allowed a look at his most-recent work and for good reason.He would ache terribly and his lover had suffered enough of late.And… well, Sherlock would also ache, but he was a step removed from this particular pain and should weather it more successfully.

“This is… if you tell me not to notify John, I will do so, but only if I believe there truly is no pressing reason.”

Mycroft never did self-portraits.Never.The one image he had made of himself was at John’s request in hospital and that had been a frightening thing to behold.This… this was far worse.

“There is no need to notify your partner, Sherlock, though I am gladdened that you recognize the possible need and are prepared to act upon it.Perhaps… perhaps at the onset there was some potential danger, in fact, I shall admit that my thoughts were very, very black and I, myself, felt as if my heart would stop beating, my mind would stop functioning, every second of every minute of every hour.The soul of this piece is rooted in that black time and it is a good thing, I believe, for that part of one’s self is as revealing and critical to identity as its opposite.But… through my work, _this_ work, and Gregory’s unwavering support, that time is now a thing of the past.”

Sherlock could only hope so, for the horribly tortured figure that leapt out at him from the canvas evoked emotions in him that were hideous to contemplate and if he never saw this work again it would be far too soon.

“Very well, I accept your statement as truthful and shall let the matter lie.Tea?”

“Your single-mindedness is most impressive, Sherlock.A formidable weapon in your personal arsenal, I have no doubt.”

But tea his brother would have, along with the more succulent biscuits that Gregory stowed securely on a high shelf to prevent rampant pilfering by the person now getting his share.Sherlock’s emotional growth had been stunted to the point of stagnation by definable factors, most of which could be lain, he felt, at _his_ feet, however… well, another thing in the past…

“I simply desire tea.John’s preposterous work schedule left time for only a single cup before he departed.Admittedly, a single cup is generally the limit of my tolerance for sitting in his squalid and matchbox-sized kitchen, but it was still an unacceptable situation.”

“Then you must learn to rise in time to have your morning follow the plan you desire for it.Gregory sets the alarm specifically to allow time for his grooming, breakfast and incidental conversation before he leaves for work.You should, also, take steps to manage your daily schedule to accommodate the activities you value.”

“This speech should be given to John, not me.He clings to his bed like an infant sloth does its mother.”

Another trait the good doctor shared with his Gregory.Sherlock did not need to know that the time of the alarm was also set to take into account the grip of his dearest on his mattress or the one lying next to him _on_ the mattress and a second alarm was needed to fully propel him upwards to start the day.

“A man who values rest is wise, indeed.Now, might I assume that your time here is limited for, say, you have classes to attend?”

“Boring.”

“Yet each one brings you closer to your goal.And, after that, your laboratory?”

“Likely.John is taking a shift for a colleague tonight in a useless act of altruism.”

“Well, then, I look forward to seeing you this evening and sharing a further round of pleasantries.Gregory had mentioned a film to rent, so entertainment shall be on offer and, if I am not mistaken, a dinner of pasta and a hearty sauce, perfect for accompanying an even heartier conversation.”

“I suppose, then, that shall be the fate to which I am condemned.”

“Misery loves company, brother dear, so we shall wallow together.”

“Joyful.”

“I could not agree more.”

__________

Sherlock strode down the street of a neighborhood he had desperately hoped to forget and engaged in a particularly pointless mental debate about attending the remainder of his day’s lectures because, firstly, he had no desire to attend them and, secondly, the various instructors seemed happier when he was absent from them in the first place.Well, most of them, anyway.A scant few had some talent for their subject and were not averse to debate on points of fact or application, however, they as much a minority as a vegetarian in a sausage factory.But, today his mind had no desire for, and, likely, no _patience_ for, institutionalized academia and craved something different instead.Mycroft’s abuser had seen no penalty for his actions and that was not something he could allow to stand anymore.His brother was still suffering, perhaps always would, and it was time the scales of justice were balanced.

Of course, this would proceed more efficiently if he had an assistant, but John refused to claim a case of highly communicable disease and leave work for even two paltry hours.Of course, that might not have been the case if had fully detailed how he intended to _use_ that time, but there had been a substantial probability that John would object to his plan, rather loudly and for prolonged duration, so his entreaty for more sex had to serve as subterfuge. Ineffective subterfuge, at that.John was a villain.

Approaching his target, Sherlock wondered how one was supposed to appear when one was trying to ‘look casual.’It was an idiotic phrase and had no quantifiable descriptors, but it did summarize what he was attempting, so some helpful feedback would have been… helpful.John was an unhelpful, blackhearted villain and would receive a stern lecture on the need for helpful feedback during an investigation at the earliest possible opportunity.And, if John failed to collect him from jail, in the event his attempt to look casual did not succeed, the words would sting for ages.

Deciding that full-visibility reconnaissance was not the proper technique for his mission, Sherlock scurried around back of the house he, frankly, hoped he would never lay eyes on again and began peeking through whatever windows he could find that allowed him a view of the interior.There was no car that he noted, which was good thing, and there seemed to be no movement or sound from inside, which was a better thing.Housebreaking when the occupant was actually home probably had a very low chance of success.

Happy that the target’s arrogance was as high as he predicted, Sherlock was able to pick the lock on the rear door and walk in, unaccompanied by the peals of alarm bells.A silent alarm was a possibility, however, the lack of the proper equipment at any point of entry argued against it.Good – he could conduct his investigation without disturbance or being further in Lestrade’s debt for convincing the local constabulary that he was not actually a burglar.Though he was, in some ways.If he could find evidence, any concrete evidence, of illegalities, he _would_ take it and bring it straight to  Lestrade’s desk for an arrest of this animal to be made.Mycroft’s portrait… what his brother had to feel inside to paint something so… disturbing.Maybe his desecrator did not own all of the blame for Mycroft's pain, but he owned a heaping share and that was enough for him to rot in prison as long as the prison stood intact.

Of course, what constituted illegality was still a bit nebulous in his mind.The rules seemed to be arbitrary and just as arbitrarily applied, when they were applied at all.Truthfully, the quick study he had made of several legal texts had convinced him that if civilization didn’t devolve into tribal, hut-living primitives before the turn of the decade, he would be greatly surprised.No wonder Mr. Hudson’s arrest had taken a millennium!He was now shocked it happened at all, with the convoluted hoops through which the police had to jump in order to clap him in irons.It was nonsensical and it also explained why Lestrade was being so boring about evidence and proof for this particular case.Apparently, if you didn’t catch someone in the act, they confessed both verbally, as well as in writing scripted with their own blood _and_ they took their own photographs of themselves perpetrating the crime, the chances of prosecution hovered at naught.

However… after a hasty, yet thorough search of the premises, Sherlock had to concede that, sometimes, individuals _were_ so stupid, or arrogant, that they took their own photographs of themselves perpetrating the crime… and wasn’t that an character flaw of the most useful proportions…

__________

Well, at least he wasn’t sloughing off his classes to shag… basic truancy, pure and simple.

“Sherlock!What in the fuck are you doing here?”

Lestrade mourned the loss of the quiet space around his desk as Sherlock dropped into a chair on the other side.It was a nice quiet space, too, where coffee was being drunk and paperwork was getting done and all was right in the world…

“That was not very welcoming.”

“Well spotted.You’re supposed to be in class or shagging John; there’s not really an acceptable third option.”

Oh my, Sherlock turned a pretty shade of cherry when he was called out, didn’t he?Well, that was a bright spot to having his zone of quite shattered like a mirror fallen off its hook.

“We will not speak of John and my relationship.”

“No?Well, this’ll be a boring conversation, then, so why don’t you toddle along and see if you can learn something in those fancy classes you’re taking.”

“That is an impossibility for my so-called fancy classes are such that an infant could receive a passing, nay, an exemplary mark.Besides, there are grave matters to discuss.”

Crap.

“Grave as in ‘in the grave,’ or as in beard-strokingly serious?”

“It was nearly the first and it is certainly the second.”

Mycroft.

“What’s happened to your brother, Sherlock?”

“I would think the particulars of that night would be of the sort you would not soon forget.”

Nothing new then.

“There’s nothing about what Mycroft went through that I will ever forget, lad, but there’s also nothing I can think of to have you sitting here warming a chair when you could be making use of that education of yours.”

“That is because you do not know what I know.”

Oh no.

“And do I get to know what that is or are we now in a guessing game.”

“How Mycroft tolerates you for more than five minutes completely baffles me.”

“Well, since it takes longer than that for a nice cuddle, he’s learned to live with it.Now, would you please just tell me what’s going on because I do have work to do.”

“You seem to have little to do except sit and stare at my brother’s scribbles, which litter your desk like discarded notepaper.”

Scribbles?Did the poor deluded bastard mean the beautiful drawings that each had its own frame so he had an army of loveliness circling his desk to ease his mind when he needed a break?Sherlock should learn to speak more precisely.

“Would you rather I stared at you?”

“I might be sick.”

“That’s settled then.Can we actually get onto your news?”

Which, since Sherlock hadn’t simply blurted anything out, it meant the boy wasn’t exactly happy to talk about what was on his mind.This wasn’t going to be good…

“Very well…”

Sherlock reached into Lestrade’s jacket, which he had, apparently, claimed as his own and pulled out a large envelope, which he handed over to the new detective.

“I… I believe this may be of interest to your private investigation.”

On alert now, the DC opened the envelope and took out some of the contents, dropping it all on his desk like it was a live coal.

“What the… the bastard took photographs!”

“And video.There is a tape at the bottom.”

Lestrade started breathing deeply to try and control himself and, when that didn’t work, bundled Sherlock’s present together and motioned for the boy to follow, leading Sherlock out behind the station where he proceeded to erupt into a frenzy of anguished violence that actually terrified the student who hid behind the corner of the building until the storm had passed and an exceptional amount of damage had been done, both to the environment and the DC.

“You are bleeding.”

The DC didn’t even bother to look at his hands, because they didn’t matter.Nothing did while this animal roamed around free and his Mycroft still struggled with memories that might never fully leave him.

“Why the FUCK did you show this to me, Sherlock?WHERE the fuck did you get it, anyway!”

“I grew… frustrated with the pace of bringing Mycroft’s defiler to justice and decided if I took no action, this inquiry would stagnate.”

“Tell me you didn’t break into his house.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss.”

Lestrade desperately tried to pull himself together and calm his rage, but Sherlock was not helping with that in the slightest.What did he think he was doing!Didn’t he realize what could have happened to him if he’d been caught?What would have happened to Mycroft?His poor, beautiful Mycroft who may not even remember that his torture had been captured so the piece of filth could revisit it at will.

“Sherlock, you _cannot_ do that!”

“Yet, I have.Twice now and met with success both times.You should know this was not the only evidence I found of his disgraceful behavior.There were other files, though, those I left alone to be found by whomever you dispatch to search the premises.Mycroft’s information…”

Lestrade nodded and had to admit that he would have done the same thing, legality be damned.But he wouldn’t have broken into the man’s house in the first place, so he still considered himself ahead of the game.

“I appreciate that, Sherlock, but you do realize I just can’t send anyone over there for a search.There’s no reason to and there would be no way I’d be issued a warrant on the complete lack of justification I’d have to present.”

“Odiousness is sufficient justification.”

“No, it isn’t, or we’d have warrants for half of London and have no time to do anything else.”

“Very well… then, we must implement Plan B.”

Oh no, part two.

“I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

“Want is not relevant.You will use the evidence to pressure his employers to give you information concerning his financial misconduct, which, as you have indicated, could have him incarcerated if you could pry it from their hands.”

Now, _that_ was interesting.Apparently, Sherlock _had_ been paying attention during his rant about the bastard’s bosses not wanting to cooperate in any prosecution for fear of bad publicity and losing clients.He’d gone far out on a limb talking to them and was surprised they hadn’t called his superiors and lodged a complaint about him since the discussion had grown more than a little heated, but… faced with the possibility of publicity worse than some shady financial dealings, they might be willing to make a deal.Unfortunately…

“ _Maybe_ that would work except there is no chance, not a single one, that anyone is going to see what you’ve got in that envelope.In fact…”

Lestrade gathered up the scattered material, dropped it all in an empty bin and pulled out the lighter for the cigarettes he turned to now and again when he needed a moment to clear his head to set the whole mass on fire, hoping the blood still dripping from his damaged knuckles didn’t douse the blaze.

“ _Nobody_ ever sees any of that. I don’t care if that pathetic excuse for a human never sees a day in jail if it keeps anyone from seeing that.”

It was enough _he’d_ seen it.Even the few photos his eyes landed on burned themselves into his brain and he really needed to have a quiet sit for a few minutes because he could feel the rage rising again and that was not a thing for an innocent bystander to walk in on.

“I do not disagree, which is why I took my own photographs of the photographs in his collection.It is not a comprehensive sample, but well-representative of what he possesses and should suffice for our purposes.They are currently being processed, but I should have them shortly.”

This was so wrong, unethical and illegal that it made Lestrade’s stomach hurt, but… that was why he was on this side of the law and Mycroft’s attacker sat squarely on the other.He’d never use any of it in court, but as a tool to apply some pressure in a few productive areas… yeah, he could do that.Maybe never again and if it didn’t pry any information from the expensively-suited men he’d talked to across even more expensive desks, he certainly wouldn’t take the matter further, but the suggestion that he might…

“Oh, stop thinking. You know you will make use of the information I obtained even if your ridiculous moral code is shrieking like a frightened schoolboy.”

“My moral code is _not_ ridiculous, Sherlock.A policeman upholds the law and protects the innocent.In this one case, the person being protected is as far from innocent as a person can be and that is the only, listen to me closely, the _only_ reason I’m contemplating what you’re suggesting.”

“When the photographs are developed, you will lose the last of your hesitancy.Mycroft was the most… damaged… of the collection, but that still leaves a great deal of room for a host of other atrocities and, believe me, all are well represented.”

“Not a word to your brother, do you hear me.Not one word.Or to John.This stays between you and me.”

“I do not like the idea of lying to John.”

That actually put a bit of brightness back in Lestrade’s heart.Sherlock might be a miserable lad, at times, but there was no denying how fiercely he coveted his relationship with John.And John was in just as deep, much to the doctor’s obvious delight.

“And I don’t like the idea of lying to Mycroft, but the fewer people who know about this the better.If something comes from this, something good, then we can wait until the gavel falls and open up a little, but now… now this needs to stay quiet.Alright?”

“If I must.”

“Good.Now, let’s find a few plasters for these knuckles of mine.I’m an idiot sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“How about a little sympathy this one, single time.I think I might have broken a couple of fingers.”

“If you can convince John to leave work and tend to your stupidity so he then can spend the remainder of the day with me, I will show you… a modicum of sympathy.”

“I’m not calling John and begging assistance just so you can drag him away for a bit of horizontal dancing!”

“Disgusting.And you should expect naught for sympathy for your lack of cooperation.”

“Perfect.Can you open the door for me, at least?”

“Is your… I was considering asking if your arm was broken, but we have decided that the possibility needs to be considered.”

“I was more thinking of getting bloody fingerprints on the handle and that’s not what a body wants to see at a police station.”

“That would actually be amusing.”

“You _would_ think it was funny.”

“The contempt in your voice is off-putting.”

“Open the door or I’ll rub my hands on you, instead, and then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“You have no sense of humor.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“See that you do.”


	45. Chapter 45

      “Gregory!  Oh, my dear, what has happened?”

Mycroft leapt off the sofa, wincing at the twinge in his knee and dashed to Lestrade’s side, gently holding his hands while the DC laughed and prepared to recite his carefully-prepared lie.

      “It’s nothing, love.  I had a small dust-up with a suspect.  They always give the running and chasing to the younger, newer lads and this particular idiot thought he had a real chance of getting the hands of the law off his shoulders.  He was wrong, but I’ll give him credit for a solid try.”

      “This is… this makes me very, very angry, Gregory, and if the villain was here I would show him just what that anger meant for his continued health.”

Protective Mycroft was a very sexy breed of the Mycroft species and if his hands weren’t aching like a bastard, he might be taking the time to show this gorgeous creature just how sexy he was.

      “It’s _nothing_ , Mycroft, I promise.”

      “First a blackened eye and now this… I had harbored a hope that a move to the detective section would mean you suffered less peril, but I see I was mistaken.”

Oh yes, the black eye.  The other injury that had nothing to do with actually doing his job as a policeman.  Sorry about that, my dear artist.  Hopefully, this will be the last lie of the sort I’ll have to tell you, but… this lie is going to have to stand for now…

      “It’s not typical, so don’t worry about it.  I probably won’t have so much as a scratch for the next year or two.  Hey!  I know… how about a little wine.  I’ll change out of these clothes and you can pour us a glass?  Have a nice quiet evening on the sofa… watch that film we planned?  I’ll make a call for take-away so we don’t have to cook.  Save that pasta for tomorrow instead?”

Mycroft glared at his lover and knew from the strain in Lestrade’s eyes that he was in pain and trying to hide it.  Absolutely they would have a quiet evening, where his Gregory would have nothing more to do that sip some wine or, instead, indulge in one of his own pain pills to help recover from his traumatic day.  Was it not enough that Gregory toiled long hours protecting those who needed him that he had to suffer physical harm, as well?  Simply unacceptable… but he would pursue the issue no further for his partner’s pride would not appreciate the mothering.  There were other ways to care for his Gregory and those would certainly not be an affront to anyone’s pride.  They were far too pleasurable for that…

      “That is a supremely agreeable idea.  However, _I_ shall place the call and you shall do naught but rest and allow me to tend to the details of the evening.  And, you _will_ accept one of my pain tablets without the slightest bit of objection or complaint.”

      “Mycroft, I…”

      “Swelling, Gregory.  I am not unaware of the significance of that and there is no reason you must suffer the pain of your injuries while you allow your tissues to heal.  Now, go and undress.  I shall assist you in the shower, then we will drink our lovely wine while waiting for the food delivery and… Sherlock.  He will likely grace our threshold before he turns attention to his research, so do brace yourself.”

Lestrade leaned over, kissed his artist on the nose and smiled widely at the wonderful feeling of being wholly and completely in love.

      “I happily say yes to every bit of that.  Even the bracing for Sherlock.  You’re a marvel, Mycroft Holmes, do you know that?  Purely and simply a marvel.”

Mycroft returned the kiss and gave Lestrade’s bottom a swat, getting him in motion so that the evening’s entertainment could commence.  He was eager for it and his lover certainly needed it, so, as always, they were exceedingly well-matched in their desires.  Fortunately, they had a fair bit of time before the need for food and the arrival of Sherlock made it necessary to turn attention away from certain other pleasures.  Though Sherlock was now indoctrinated in such things, his brother would certainly suffer mental breakdown if he stumbled upon something naked and passionate occurring in the flat, though, that was omething to keep in mind the next time he and Gregory desired a long day of quiet and the Specter of Doom was haunting the sofa…

__________

One perfect night with his artist, Sherlock actually being marginally cordial during the perfect evening with artist, the most restful sleep imaginable, what with being made love to with an almost unimaginable tenderness and an extra pain pill taking the final edges off the ache in his hands… now his stomach was in a knot as he sat, turning over a business card in his hand for the fiftieth time.  Sherlock had slipped him the photographs he’d taken last night while Mycroft was in the loo and he couldn’t deny they were damning.  Nobody seeing them, except another despicable sadist, would want anything to do with the animal who took them, there was just no question about that.  A business would do well to see that piece of rubbish well and truly sacked and, better yet, put away for a very long time so there was no chance he could put a large and very noticeable stain on their public reputations.  It made sense, it really did.  And it _certainly_ was what the bastard had coming to him.

So, why wasn’t he picking up the phone to make an appointment to talk to the company head?  Or just asking for an hour or two off for ‘personal reasons’ and marching down there to push past the rows of secretaries to get to the man _without_ an appointment?   Because he had a big fucking problem with all of this, that’s why.  He loved Mycroft with all of his heart and if it was him and the evil sod who hurt his artist alone in a room, he wouldn’t have any trouble giving the arse a solid beating.  Man to man, nothing about the law, nothing about the courts… just one man avenging the most important person in his life against the one who nearly took away that person’s smile forever.

This was different, though.  A lot different.  This wasn’t man to man.  This was using illegally-obtained evidence to… well, blackmail was the right word… blackmail a company suit into turning over another set of evidence that _could_ be used in court.  He’d felt better about it yesterday, but that was also when he was high on adrenaline and all those lovely endorphins that kept his hands from screaming at him until after Sherlock had gone and he felt the world crash in so he had to find a medic to check for permanent damage.  Now… now he couldn’t forget who and what he was and… this wasn’t easy.

      “And look who I find at his desk bright and early as always.”

Perfect.  What better evidence that he should be rethinking his plan than an appearance by the person who would sack him if he got caught.

      “Good morning, sir.  I do like to have myself organized and ready before the day starts.”

      “Must be an especially difficult thing this morning, what with those hands of yours getting in the way.”

Fuck a fucking fuck harder than any fuck’s been fucked before.

      “Yeah, I’m a bit clumsy at times.  Took a nasty fall and rather than do it gracefully, I tried to stop myself which just made matters worse.”

      “A fall.  Oh, those _can_ be terrible things.   Almost as terrible as your ability to lie.  Since part of my job is to see the people on my watch are properly educated as to their jobs, I shall point out to you, as a potential help for future detective work, that there are things called windows which, depending on the mood of those nearby, can be opened or closed at will.  Follow me, Lestrade.”

Oops.  Never thought about any open windows when he had his little tantrum.  Definitely a lesson learned.  Good to have something positive to take with him on his way to the dole queue.

__________

      “Now, would you like to tell me what this is all about?”

Lestrade looked around his superior’s office and silently admitted to a small daydream about having one like this of his own someday.  Maybe not being in charge of a station, because that wouldn’t give him any time out on his feet, but an office and people he could call on to work the sorts of crimes he had always hoped to get his hands on.  Now, that daydream needed to be packed away, just like the one he’d had as a lad about being a professional football player.  Neither was going to come true, but both _had_ seemed possible once upon a time.   Time to start a new one.  Security work?  Building?  He was able-bodied.  Food would stay on the table.  They’d still have heat.  Hopefully.

      “Can I say no?”

      “How has that worked for you in the past?”

Good point.

      “Can I say… it has nothing to do with any official investigation and hasn’t impacted any case I’m working on?”

      “You can, and that’s good to know, but it doesn’t do a thing to answer my question.”

      “I guess it doesn’t.  It’s just… I got a little… disturbing news yesterday and reacted poorly to it, that’s all.”

      “Oh, that’s not nearly all, Detective Constable, and please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending it is.  Now, I would hope that if you had a situation arise, you would come to me to discuss it, but I suppose we can credit that lapse in judgment to youthful pride and move on from there.  Please, do fill in the details for me.”

Was this what the snake felt like when the mongoose stared at it?  Probably.  And he was a very small, benign snake so there was not chance this fight was going to go his way.  Taking a very deep breath and wondering if there was another person, besides Mycroft, with whom he’d had so many soul-bearing conversations, Lestrade let the story flow, feeling as beat up and exhausted when he was done as he always did when he opened himself up and let the ugliness out into the light.

      “I see.  Well, I have to admit that is aptly described by ‘disturbing.’  You… you didn’t share this with your partner, did you?”

      “No!  No and I’m not going to if I can avoid it.  He’s doing well, very well, really, but still has low periods.  He might always have them and that’s alright because he has a right to, but I’m not going to do anything to make them worse.”

      “Smart.  And I can’t say I would have reacted any differently, in your place.  But… we do need to talk about Sherlock and his so-called evidence.”

      “I’ve already chewed his arse for that, sir, and told him that it can’t be used in court.  He thought he was doing something good for his brother and I won’t fault him for that, but I made it clear that he could _not_ do that again.  I ran him in once for drugs and I _will_ run him in again if he’s caught doing something illegal.  He knows that and I can only hope that he remembers it.”

      “Good.  That’s good.  But that’s not what I was talking about.”

      “No?”

      “No.”

      “Oh.”

      “I was speaking about what exactly you might _do_ with that evidence now that it’s conveniently in your possession.”

 _Oh_.

      “And don’t tell me what you think I want to hear, Lestrade.  Tell me what is _actually_ on your mind.”

      “I’m… I’m not sure that’s something you want to know, sir.”

      “I’ll be the judge of that, DC.”

Once again, Lestrade breathed deeply and let loose information he would have been much happier keeping quiet, kicking himself that his detective’s skills weren’t developed enough to read what was going on behind his Inspector’s calm expression.

      “But… I don’t know if I can bring myself to do it.  It’s not right… there’s no way to say that it is.  I thought I could do it.  Thought it would be alright as long as I didn’t go through with the threat, but…”

      “Burns a hole in the stomach?”

      “Yes!  I love Mycroft.  I love him so much and want nothing more than to see him get some justice for what he suffered, but… I don’t think he would approve of this, even if it put that arsehole away forever.   Pardon my French.”

      “You might be right.  But, then, the people who suffer are often more charitable than the ones who have to watch them suffer.  And, I have to commend you, lad.  You _should_ be having a problem with this and, frankly, I would worry about you if you didn’t.  Our job isn’t an easy one and you _are_ going to face situations where finding a solution means walking through some very gray areas.  You’re going to have to weigh a lot of issues and decide what your conscience can allow and what it can’t.  Even then… some people don’t make good decisions.  They don’t grab the chance to get someone truly dangerous off the street or they ruin a person’s life before they have actual proof of their guilt.  Being a good officer, a truly good officer, means, at heart, being a good person.  But, experience is important, too.  Knowing when the questionable move is the right one and when it’s not… when it will do more harm than good in the long run.”

Lestrade crossed his fingers and hoped this was leading somewhere that would drain some of that acid in his stomach because it was not making him a very happy man at the moment..

      “Now, I think you’ve got the first part in hand.  You honestly care about protecting the public and seeing law and order maintained in the community.  You take your job seriously because you know how much it matters to those you’re there to watch over.  But… you’re still learning the job.  Not many experiences under your belt to be able to make the hard call and have it _be_ the right call.  And you know it, which is very, very important.  That’s why it’s not going to be your call anymore.”

What?

      “What?”

      “You’re certain about this individual’s financial misdealing and lack of proper respect towards Her Majesty’s tax collectors?”

      “I… uh… yes.  A series of corroborating stories and some strong circumstantial evidence, though you’d need specific documentation from his firm to prove anything.”

      “And none of the witnesses you found for his… other activities.  No one is willing to make a statement on the record?”

      “No.  They’re scared, ashamed… I couldn’t convince any of them to come forward and I couldn’t bring myself to push them too hard.  I have some idea of what they’re going through…”

      “Yes, I understand.  But, you said that one of them worked in the same firm?”

      “They did.  Took an extended vacation, then found new employment afterwards.”

      “Which is something I can’t believe the men at the top didn’t know a bit about, even if it was after-the-fact.  Now, that card you were worrying near to death.  Contact information, perhaps?”

      “Yes, sir.  I grabbed one when I was being escorted off the premises.”

      “Hand it over.”

Lestrade reached into his pocket and gave the business card to the man on the other side of the desk.

      “Thank you, DC Lestrade.  That will be all.”

What?

      “What?”

      “That will be all.  Scurry back to your desk and straighten your papers or something until your sergeant gets in.”

      “Ok… thank you, sir?”

      “You’re welcome, though, for what, I have no idea.  Oh!  I almost forgot.  There was a development on that drugs case you might find interesting.”

Lestrade watched as a paper was plucked off a stack next to his Inspector and pushed his way.  What it said…

      “This is one of those times, isn’t it?  When your conscience has to decide what it will allow and what it won’t?”

      “Do you want to applaud?”

      “Sort of.”

      “Well, then you’re in good company.  I’m not certain if Martha has been notified, but the Widow Hudson might enjoy a spot of company tonight if you have the time.”

Mr. Hudson was a very dead man and that should have affected the way any death might but… yeah, applauding wasn’t a bad idea either.

      “Do we know what happened?”

      “Apparently, someone got it into their heads that he was the source of information that brought their operation down and… I think they took it poorly.  It’s not that hard to fashion a knife in prison, you know.”

      “Poor, Mrs. Hudson.  She’ll be… I’ll stop and get a bottle of champagne on my way home and I’m certain Mycroft will be up for a little celebration at his old address.”

      “Good man.  Now, why are you still here, DC?  You have matters to attend to.”

Lestrade shot out of his seat, saluted smartly and continued shooting until he was out of the office and back in his chair, spinning it around on its axis.  New rule… when in doubt, seek advice.  Not just for little things, but for real troubles, too.  He didn’t have to wade through life or his career alone… and it wasn’t smart to try.  Get the help he needed, when he needed it, he’d told that to his artist often enough… it was time he started taking his own advice.

__________

      “What?”

      “Pardon?”

      “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Lestrade grinned at the three shocked faces who happened to be clustered around the kitchen table in the most convenient manner possible.

      “You heard me.  Mrs. Hudson is now a sad, weeping widow.  Or an ecstatic, singing widow.  But, the widow part is the same either way.”

      “Gregory… what happened?”

      “Just rewards, if you ask me.  What I heard was that the story started going around that he was the weak link in their criminal chain… a traitorous link, perhaps… and that earned him a prison-quality knife between the ribs.  Doctor couldn’t get to him fast enough, so… there you have it.  I thought we might pay our respects tonight, if that’s alright with the rest of you.”

      “Hence the champagne and plastic glasses, you fiendish copper.”

      “Yes, John, I thought the situation merited all proper recognition.  And alcohol.”

      “Well, I, for one, believe that is a magnificent idea, my dear.  Allow me to get my jacket.”

Mycroft slowly made his way to the bedroom and Lestrade admired the slight shimmy of happiness he made as he walked.  The artist truly did have a majestic bottom…

      “I have no objection to celebrating the removal of a tapeworm from the bowel of humanity.”

      “Sherlock’s in.  John?”

      “I’ll second the tapeworm idea.”

      “And it’s unanimous.  Though, John, could you take a quick look at Mycroft’s knee before we go?  I know he’s been sneaking out during the day and I’d feel better knowing he’s not doing himself any damage?”

      “Sure.  I was going to give him a check tonight anyway.  I’ll just be a moment.”

Once John was gone, Lestrade drew up a chair and filled in Sherlock on the rest of the day’s events.

      “Good.  I had not given it any thought, but someone of your lowly rank is not likely to strike fear in the heart of a church mouse, let alone one of the arrogant dolts who work in the financial arena.  This should be far more successful in swaying their opinion.”

      “I think you’re right.  And… I have a feeling my boss has done something like this before, so I have faith it’s going to work.  I really believe that it will.   It’s not what I want to see the piece of filth locked away for, but I’ll take it.  Maybe he’ll catch his own knife in the ribs, if we’re lucky.”

The look on Sherlock’s face gave the DC a bit of worry, because if there was a person who might try to set that very thing in motion, it was definitely Sherlock, but he didn’t have time to pursue the issue since they were joined by their respective partners, who were thankfully unaware of any of this sordid business.

      “I have been given a clean bill of health, though I was apparently graded on somewhat of a sliding scale.”

      “Be thankful you’re doing as well as you are, you ungrateful artist.  You’ve missed all the fun things like infection and other joyful complications, so be happy you got your gold star and, most likely, a nice and truly disgusting reward from that unfit policeman later on after Sherlock and I have fled the scene in terror.”

      “That’s a certainty, John.  Mycroft’s gold stars are _highly_ arousing.”

      “We are now leaving.”

Sherlock grabbed John and dragged him out the door before any further assaults could be launched on his ears and the older couple smiled at the rapid departure.

      “Well, my gold star patient… shall we follow along?”

      “Oh, I suppose.  After all, we _are_ in possession of the champagne, after all, and the festivities might be a little lackluster without it.”

      “Very good point.  After you?”

Careful that nothing happened on the descent of the stairs, Lestrade escorted his precious artist out into the night air where Sherlock and John were loitering in wait, which actually meant having an argument about why Sherlock had not received any gold starts to date, despite being ‘spectacularly successful’ in bed.  Yes, this was going to be an evening to remember for so, so many reasons…

__________

Mrs. Hudson answered the door and burst out laughing, seeing the quartet wearing mourning bands on their arms, fashioned from the most brightly-colored ribbon they could find on their trip over and gave each man a firm hug.

      “Oh, I’m horrid, aren’t I?  Smiling like a schoolgirl because the Mr. got himself sent to meet his maker.”

      “Not horrid at all, Mrs. Hudson.  One should always take delight from the happy events of life.”

      “Listen to you, Mycroft Holmes.  As bloodthirsty as I am.  Must be why we get on so well.  Come in!”

That was all the signal that was needed to get the party started and it wasn’t until late in the evening that anyone had any inclination to see it end.

      “Well, I suppose we should allow you to get some rest after your trying day, Mrs. Hudson.  I suspect you shall enjoy many callers tomorrow once the news has spread.”

      “You’re probably right, Mycroft, but… oh, I hate to see you leave.  You know, it’s strange… I haven’t lived alone in what seems like my whole lifetime.  Now, there’s nobody in this big house and it feels… well, it feels a little empty.  I thought it would be a lovely thing, but I’m finding it’s a bit quiet for my taste.”

      “You are not leaving London.”

The fact that Sherlock didn’t say that as a question, but as a statement of fact made his former landlady smile broadly.

      “No, I’m not.  But, I _am_ thinking of taking in tenants.  I’m not sure who would want your old flat, but the upstairs rooms used to be rented out when my aunt lived here and there’s no reason they couldn’t be again.  We’ve been using them for storage and the occasional visit by my sister, but… it would be nice to have a couple or a family living here.  Good income boost, too.”

      “You _are_ still alright in that area, aren’t you Mrs. Hudson?”

      “I am at that, Doctor Watson.  In fact, now that my lesser half has been polite enough to get himself killed, there’s a tidy bit of insurance money coming my way.  I’m going to be very alright and my boys are close enough to make sure that’s always the case, isn’t that true?”

Four heads nodded vigorously in agreement and Mrs. Hudson decided that deserved a nice package of baked treats to take home, with Sherlock following along to personally inspect the contents, dragging John by the arm as his assistant.

      “I could not be happier, Gregory.  There is a joy in seeing good fortune shine upon those about whom you care and it is a joy of incalculable warmth and lightness.”

      “I couldn’t agree more.  Good things happening to good people sort of renews your faith in the world.  And don’t worry, if and when she decides to have tenants, I’ll run a check on them to make sure they’re the sort of people we want living here.”

      “Excellent.  You have saved me the trouble of begging the favor.”

      “So… does that mean no begging in my future at all?”

      “Hmmm… perhaps a small amount.”

      “Lovely begging while you moan my name and pull my hair?”

      “That sounds much like what I was thinking.”

      “Oh good.  So… think they’ll be long in the kitchen?”

      “Not long enough for you to get a taste of our upcoming activities, no.”

      “Drat.  Oh well, I can wait.  There’s enough champagne left for one glass.  Care to share?”

      “I would be delighted.  And, Gregory?  If I have not told you today, I love you dearly.”

      “And I love you, too.  So much so that I’ll let you have my half of the champagne.”

      “You are truly a spectacular partner, my dear.”

      “Only what you deserve, Mycroft.  Only what you deserve.”

__________

Lestrade actually enjoyed the gentle pace of the walk home, as he thought Mycroft looked positively stunning in the moonlight.  The toddlers had run off to John’s flat for the night and they could savor a slow walk home, holding hands and talking about nothing of any importance simply because it made them happy.  This was, without doubt, what he’d been looking for all his life.  He couldn’t have articulated it if you’d asked him, but there was no doubt he’d found it.    And nothing could ever make him happier.  His artist, the family they’d built… he had roots.  Good solid roots in a community where people cared and looked after each other.  This was exactly what he wanted and he felt like the luckiest man alive to finally have it in his hands.

And, once they got home, he’d have something else in his hands.  And his mouth.  Life was good… life was very, very good…


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we come to the end of our tale... it was a long ride and, I hope, one that folks enjoyed, even when the twists and turns went through some fairly dark tunnels. I thank you all for the incredible support sent my way during the writing of this story and I cherished every comment and kudo you sent my way. So, for this story, I bid you farewell, but feel free to putter around my other tales for more of our boys' adventures. They'll be thrilled you stopped in to visit!

      “Are you certain, my dear?”

Mycroft tutted and fretted over Lestrade’s hands and the DC couldn’t bring himself to pull them away from the attention.  They were still as sore as the devil and the tender loving care actually made a noticeable difference.

      “John doesn’t need to be bothered with these silly things.  I held them up for him to look at and he didn’t order X-rays, did he?”

Actually, in a small, private chat last night, the stupid prat said he probably _should_ have some if he hadn’t already, but just because the man had a medical degree, that didn’t make his opinion better than the person owning the pounded knuckles.  Well, alright, it did, but he was still a  prat anyway.

      “No, but… can you not take a day to rest?”

      “I can glare at suspects and nod knowingly when the detectives I’m with say something official just as easily today as I could yesterday.”

      “And how shall you write your reports and take your notes?”

Why did his artist have to be intelligent and logical?  Really, how could one man have so much talent in so many areas?  It was almost demonic.

      “I’m fine, Mycroft.  Just a little ache that I’ll work through once these fingers loosen a bit.  Sort of like your knee.  It feels worst right off in the morning, doesn’t it, and gets better once you’ve given it a bit of a stretch?”

      “That is immaterial for, as Sherlock is ever eager to remind me, the bulk of my day is spent on my plentifully-plump arse.”

No, Sherlock did not remind Mycroft of that because not even Sherlock would call Mycroft’s bum plentifully-plump.  Or even slightly plump.  That little handful still had a long way to go before it was even of average roundness, but it _was_ better than it had been, so it was a victory Lestrade would proudly savor.

      “It’s _very_ material, you just don’t want to admit it because you’re a stubborn, stubborn man.  And I love you for it.”

Lestrade gave Mycroft a kiss and scooped up his packed lunch, happily ignoring the pain as his not-stretched fingers grabbed the bag.

      “I’ll let you know if I’ll be late.  Stay out of trouble for me, will you?”

      “Oh, if I must.  And Gregory… do take care of yourself.”

      “I will.”

One final kiss and the DC was off to the station with Mycroft left with his usual decision of beginning immediately to paint or taking his knee out for a small walk to give it and him a bit of fresh air.  Or… actually there was one further thing he had considered and, though he would not brave the Tube with his knee or other impediments, there _was_ a bus with a stop nearby that would take him where he wanted to go.  A cab would be preferable, however, the current status of his personal funds was rather like a joke told by someone quite lost in the haze of intoxication – painfully unfunny and thoroughly embarrassing, to boot.  Yes, perhaps today was a good day for Agenda Option  Three…

__________

Lestrade sat at his desk and was happy that, despite Mycroft’s skeptical scowling, his fingers were nimbling nicely, at least to the point where he wouldn’t feel like swearing every time he lifted his pencil.  And that was a good thing, because pencil-lifting was the task du jour, apparently, as things seemed a bit quiet this morning, with most of the other detectives at their desks doing exactly what he was doing - filling out paperwork and writing reports.  The life of a detective was a spectacularly adventurous one, at times, but someone had to step up to the challenge.  In fact he’d stepped up so proudly that when he was tapped on the shoulder, the startled squawk he made could have won prizes and a cock-crowing competition.

      “Paperwork generally doesn’t make officers nervous as cats, Lestrade.”

And Inspectors generally don’t sneak up behind officers and scare the life out of them, sir.

      “Just lost in concentration, sir.  I’ve a lot to get done and…”

      “It can wait.  Get your jacket.”

Lestrade blinked in surprise and, only now, noticed that his superior officer was not in uniform but, rather, in everyday clothes with his own jacket slung over his shoulder.

      “Sir?”

      “Come on, you’re with me for a few hours.  And here, put these on.”

Out came a pair of black gloves that were tossed on the desk in front of Lestrade’s mountain of paper.

      “No use scaring the civilians with those hands of yours.  Though… I have to admit that gloves give their own bit of fright in the right circumstances.”

And, with a smirk, the older man turned on his heels and started towards the door, with Lestrade scrambling to catch him.  What in the hell was this all about?  Please not protection duty, please not protection duty, please not protection duty… that was supposed to be the worst.  Boring and if someone did decide to take a swing at the protectee, it was your face that had to take it on the chin.  Literally.

__________

Ok, this was _not_ protection duty.  This was the most amazing thing he had ever witnessed.  Apparently, his Inspector had decided that taking charge of the issue they’d discussed yesterday didn’t mean cutting him out of the loop entirely and he got to have a ringside seat for a man with real and natural authority taking down a jumped-up stack of banknotes in an expensive suit.  They’d strode into the building where the human scum that hurt Mycroft worked and not a soul had the courage to even stand in their way all the way up to the executive floor where a few tried to get smart and learned what it meant to try and talk down to someone who ate little  Uni brats like them for lunch.

Now, they were sitting in an office that reeked of money and privilege and the man whose office it was seemed about as far from that money and privilege as a bloke could be.  If there wasn’t a massive sweat stain in that £1000 chair by the time they left, he’d be greatly surprised.  This was how you dealt with someone who had a bankrupt moral code.  You hit them where it hurt with evidence to make the blow connect and didn’t back down no matter how large a tantrum they threw to try and buy some leverage.  Oh, and be polite.  Nothing made the bastards angrier than when you were polite.

And it got them what they wanted.  They’d get the files they needed to nail the arsehole to the wall, though there wouldn’t be a deeper investigation to root out anything else that might be of use.  That was alright, though.  Along with an agreement to cooperate with the prosecution, it was more than enough to see that evil bastard put away for a very, very long time.  It wasn’t what he should get; he should get dragged into the public light for the piece of filth that he was, but he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else and that was the important thing.  And Mycroft would never, not even by accident, have the slightest chance of laying eyes on him for long enough to, hopefully, make a difference.

      “Well, Lestrade.  I’d say that’s a good morning’s work done.”

      “Yes, sir.  And… thank you, sir.”

      “For what?  Keeping the community safe?  Just doing my job.  Oh, but if your Mycroft is looking to occupy himself with a project, the wife has been hinting she’d like something new and lovely for the wall.”

And the quick wink that followed said ‘you’re welcome’ very loudly and clearly.  Yes, he had a lot to learn about becoming a good policeman, but that was the point.  You _learn_ and don’t forget the lessons you’d been taught.  Today was one he would never, ever forget and wasn’t he a lucky boy because of it…

      “Mycroft’s always happy to have something new to inspire him.  I’ll pass along the suggestion.”

      “Good.  Now, a spot of lunch, I think, and then it’s back to the desk.  I’ve got to get some of the lads onto this case and, before you volunteer, the answer is no.  We need to keep you off of this for any hint of bias or harassment from this point forward.  You have enough on your plate, in any case.  I saw the tower of paper you still have to climb today and I’ll not let you use this larking about as an excuse for leaving it undone.”

      “Yes, sir.  Understood, sir.”

Lestrade saluted as dramatically as he could and followed after his superior, who walked away muttering about this young lot and their lack of respect.  Oh, he’d get his paperwork done.  Dot every I and cross every T.  Then he’d go home and take his artist in a big kiss and privately celebrate one more victory for their little family.  Not that he’d tell, Mycroft, of course.  Not now, at least.  Wait until the ‘Guilty’ was tattooed on the villain’s forehead and then let that news escape.  Mycroft would appreciate the artistic touch…

__________

Public transportation… it was the most powerful argument for walking or, failing that, never leaving one’s home for all eternity.  What a ghastly conveyance was a bus, but, beggars could not be choosers, so he would put off writing a letter of complaint to the various Transport officials until a later time.

It did, however, deliver him to his intended target, so that was a mark in the credit side of its ledger.  There was a plethora of galleries in this district and he had felt the need, of late, to wander about through them, unaccompanied even by his Gregory, who was his standard companion for this sort of outing.  This particular trip was for his own reflection and that reflection was not exactly about the art he was viewing.

It was about the _art_ he was viewing.  It was not even a distinction he, himself, could successfully articulate, but what he needed to view, to experience, was the flesh and bone of the creature that was art for it was in its jaws he must decide if he had a place.  Not its soul or its heart, for every artist had a home there, but there was a physical nature to the beast that must be confronted if one was to make a life around it.  It was not the art world, per se, that was the issue; it was the perception of art.   The acceptance.  The fond eye or the withering glare, not of the self-proclaimed experts but the collective perspective of the whole audience.  It mattered not, on one hand, for the artist’s vision was independent of all of that, however…

However, however, however… the ego was not.  The bank balance was not.  The sense of worth or competence… it was a profoundly complex maze of complementary and contrasting forces, both on the pure and practical sides that made his passion such a tempestuous one.  It did not have to be, of course.  Gregory would be perfectly content for him to sit at home and create solely for the sake of creation.  He would be fed, clothed, housed, entertained and Gregory would begrudge none of it.  Artists had enjoyed the bounty of patrons for ages, so the concept was not unprecedented.

But that was not the man he was.  No, he must stand corrected… to some degree it was.  He had allowed his heart to lead him into poverty and depravity simply to avoid the beast he was now here to confront and about that, he would not lie, even to himself.  There were other reasons for it, of course… he was not sufficiently naïve to believe there were not. He spoke of them weekly when he sat and let his darkness be revealed so that, one day, it might not blind his mind’s eye so disastrously.  Today, however, he was here to reflect on whether he could be the man he wanted to be.  The man who followed his passion, yet stood in support of his family.  The myth of the self-absorbed artist was only one of a myriad to describe his kind and he was determined to choose another.

For several hours, Mycroft walked through galleries, making small talk with the occasional owner or visitor, though never revealing the purpose of his little stroll.  Mostly, though, he observed.  Observed and reflected upon the data.  There were the practicalities to sort out, of course.  How did one garner the attention to get their work displayed?  Was there a standard route for one to follow or did one simply take the steps that seemed most beneficial given the circumstances?  And the issue of price… how did one set a price on a piece of one’s soul?  Actually, he could, with little effort, craft a formula taking into account prestige of gallery, personal renown, subject matter, state of the current art market, tone of the season and a selection of other factors to set an appropriate number, but it seemed so utterly vulgar.  Life was vulgar, though, so the symmetry, at least, was heartening.

Then, there was the competition, though, that was really not the word he would choose to use if there were a better one available.  His art had no competitors for it was unique, as was the work of any artist.  His point of view, his aesthetic, his story, perspective, vision, goal, dream… all unique and, therefore, outside the arena of the concept of competition.  But, that was, again, taking a philosophical road and that was not the only matter of relevance.  His work _would_ be in competition with others.  Competition for the attention of gallery owners, art buyers and critics… in this he felt he did have some talent for persuasion, for, as they say, the art of the sale, but to get to that point… to _get_ to that point he must offer a product that stood apart from the rank and file.

And it was a deeply-rooted part of him that feared he could not do it.  He had no formal instruction in technique.  He had no criticism beyond Sherlock’s scathing jabs or Gregory and John’s fulsome praise and neither was entirely helpful in promoting artistic growth.  The closest he had experienced to a neutral, and informed, third-party opinion was that of his therapist but he could not trust, necessarily, that the man was telling him, at times, what he thought was beneficial to his mental health, even if it was not beneficial to his work.

Today, he looked at the works presented with a very different eye than was his norm.  This eye was not to admire, but to evaluate.  To assess and not to enjoy or experience.  He went through exhibition after gallery after showing and ran his most analytical eye over every piece on display, finally coming to a definitive, if disheartening, conclusion.

What utter rubbish!  A disgraceful collection of tommyrot!  Pretentious twaddle mixed with soulless, commercialized pablum.  Not all of it, of course… there were some pieces that sang a song of true spirit, some crafted with such delicacy or such boldness that it made him want to weep, however they certainly did not represent the majority.  Thinking now, without the luxury of apathy for what held no appeal to him, he could say that his paintings would stand out most stirringly from the rank and file.  That did not mean his works would sell, of course, for quality had, often, little connection to profit, however, he could lay to rest any worries that his work paled by comparison to what London had to offer, in terms of artistic merit.

With all the spring in his step that was safe to exhibit, Mycroft strolled back to wait for the bus to carry him back to Lestrade’s flat.  It was still sufficiently early to see a solid few hours work on his latest piece before his lover returned home and then he would set aside his brushes and devote the remainder of the night to the man who was making this potential future even a remote possibility.  Without Gregory’s support he would never have been able to find his footing and take the first steps on the path towards that elusive dream that had visited his sleep since he was a child.  It would not be easy and the possibility of failure was phenomenally high, however… there _was_ a possibility and he would take it.  He would not let this slip through his fingers without giving it his most forceful effort.  His family… and he, himself… deserved no less.

__________

      “There’s my artist!  Even has a smudge of paint on his nose to prove it.”

Mycroft’s crossed-eyes attempt to verify the accusation made Lestrade laugh and confirmed that his Mycroft had enjoyed a good day.  He was slowly learning his partner’s expressions and body language to get a forewarning of trouble but none of the warning signs were flashing tonight, so well done, Mycroft.

      “Dear heavens, you are correct.”

      “It’s green, though, and you know how gorgeous I think you are in green.”

Lestrade kissed Mycroft’s cheek, making a grand show of staying away from his colorful nose and smiled at Mycroft’s huffed faux-annoyance at his antics.

      “Perhaps I might someday purchase skin-safe finger paints and allow you adorn me with as much green as strikes your fancy.”

      “Will you be naked?”

      “Very.”

      “Looks like we have a plan for my next off day!  We can go to the shops and choose just the right shade for that beautiful skin of yours.”

Skin that had healed well from its ordeal, but there would always be scars to serve as a reminder of what his artist went through.  Lestrade didn’t mind them in the least, though.  They proved his Mycroft was strong, strong enough to survive all that life had thrown at him and that was something special.

      “Well, since that particular joy is to be experienced another day, I shall remove from my face any temptation to distract us from our lovely dinner.  Which, I admit, I have yet to begin.”

      “Pasta is quick, love.  Don’t worry about silly things like that when you work just as hard as I do.  Besides, even if we had something elaborate planned, it’s fun to cook together.”

      “True, though my vigilance for your theft of our ingredients during the preparation phase is most tiring at times.”

      “I don’t steal.  I… reallocate.”

      “Oh, very good.  A politician could not obfuscate with greater ease.”

Lestrade’s bright smile made Mycroft giggle and finally rise from his stool to bring his work day to a close.

      “And how was my verbally-skilled detective’s day at work?  Were many crimes solved and perpetrators properly chastised?”

      “Actually, yes!  Well, if you count two as many, which, some days, it is.  Sent two cases to trial and they’re solid, so we’ll get convictions unless something unexpected happens.  Good day’s work protecting the citizens, I think.”

      “I quite agree.  It is actually a comforting thing to hear when you return home with successful news.  I hear and read so many distressing items in the media that it is easy to take a cynical view of the effectiveness of our law enforcement and judicial systems.”

      “And I won’t disagree.  We’re up against a lot, but we _do_ try and we win more often than it might seem, because the bastards in the media don’t think that’s as exciting to report.”

      “Now, now, my dear.  Do not agitate yourself.  Your lovely dinner will not sit well in a turbulent stomach.”

      “True, so change of subject.  How was your day, my tremendously-talented artist?”

      “Exceptional, I would say.  And, to some degree, unexpected.”

Unexpected was not a word Lestrade liked to hear concerning his still-fragile artist, but Mycroft seemed happy, so steady on…

      “Oh… I’m all ears.”

Mycroft smiled and walked the few steps to the kitchen to begin meal preparations and Lestrade joined him, cautiously optimistic that the news would be good.

      “I have come to some decisions about my future.”

Still cautiously optimistic…

      “Ok, anything you feel alright sharing?”

      “Most certainly!  I have given thought to what I most want from life and believe I have some general scheme for seeing it realized, as least to the best of my ability and the whims of Fate.”

      “Uh huh… that was completely uninformative.”

Mycroft gave Lestrade a hearty finger wagging and handed his lover a substantial slice of courgette to nibble while he chopped the rest for their dinner.

      “Consider it the preamble.  In terms of specifics… I have decided to begin the, undoubtedly lengthy, process of gaining my work wider recognition and, hopefully, seeing it generate an income.”

      “Get your stuff in those galleries, you mean?  That’s great!  Really, that’s fantastic.  You know whatever you need me to do, I’ll do.  I’ll help you any way I can, just say the word.  We can even tell the sexy finger paints to fuck off and get a good start my first day free.”

      “I would never set aside your artistic expression for such a banal thing!  Besides, I have a great deal to do to prepare, the least of which is investigate exactly what is involved in such an undertaking.  In the meantime, I shall explore what opportunities exist in the form of commission work or whatever avenues might be available to garner some interest.  Also, there is… I know it is not what you would like, but I would like to survey the possible employment opportunities on offer in my field.  Perhaps some half-day option, so I would have the morning or afternoon free for my own work.”

      “Don’t worry about what I may or may not like, love. The only thing that matters to me, the _only_ thing I want, is for you to be happy and if you think this is what will do that for you,  then you have my support.  Never, ever, think you don’t have my support for what you want to do with your life.”

Which was why, if there was any chance for this to succeed, it _would_ , for his Gregory would support him unconditionally and lend his strength to whatever endeavor was required to see the goal reached.

      “And I love you dearly for it.  I could not do this without you, Gregory.”

      “I appreciate that, love, but I really do think you could.  You’re the strongest, smartest man I’ve ever known, Mycroft.  The most talented, too.  You don’t _need_ me to do this, but it is my honor and my privilege to help you get to wherever you want to be.   After dinner, of course.  I’m starving!”

Mycroft leaned over and kissed his lover tenderly, hoping to impart to Lestrade exactly how much those words meant to him.  When called for, he could exude an air of supreme confidence, but here, in their home, he could express his insecurities and doubts.  There was a relief in that which defied precise definition, but it had been a lifeline and one he would never take for granted.

      “Then do take up a knife and assist with the chopping.”

      “How about you chop and I’ll handle quality assurance.  I’ll start with this bit of tomato, what say, and move on to the bread from there.”

      “Such slothfulness.  I foresee a very late start to our meal if only my small knife and paltry strength lead the charge towards preparation.”

      “That’s a problem.  I’ll eat all the ingredients before then and we won’t actually get our dinner.”

      “Truly a conundrum.”

      “Guess I have to help.”

      “Begin with pouring wine.  That might stimulate your collaborative urges.”

      “Good idea.  See?  I told you that you were brilliant.”

Lestrade made sure to kiss his artist as he leaned over to get the wine and glasses.  His Mycroft was doing so well.   This was a big step, but it sounded like the right one.  It wasn’t desperate or panicked or resigned.  His Mycroft sounded hopeful and determined and that was a fantastic thing.  And, succeed or not, his artist would get every chance to realize his dream and be shown, each day of their lives together, that he was loved, respected and appreciated.  No, the road ahead wasn’t going to be an easy one, but it would be a fantastic one and nothing else really mattered.

      “I do believe we might use the large glasses tonight, my dear.  I feel sufficiently jubilant for a few extra quaffs of the grape this evening.”

Except wine.  Wine mattered.  A lot.  His Mycroft was breathtaking with tipsy-pink cheeks and a little extra shine in his smile…

__________

      “That was a crime against intelligence.”

      “You picked the film!”

      “I chose whatever was listed first on the marquis!  You refused to spend our evening in the morgue as I suggested…”

      “Anyone would refuse that!  Besides, I brought you those tissue samples to take with you tonight to your lab, so that should be enough sciencey things for one night.”

      “There can never be enough science.”

      “On date night, there can.  So I decree.”

Sherlock cut eyes downwards at John who made his most imperious face, something that lasted a total of three seconds before he started giggling, with Sherlock joining in with what John categorized as the student’s fondly-exasperated tone.  Which happened to be one of the doctor’s favorites.

      “I am not content to live in a dictatorship, John.”

      “You’re not living in one.  Greg’s not a very dictatorial bloke and Mycroft… well, I can imagine Mycroft being _extremely_ dictatorial, actually, though in a very polite and posh way.  He’s got that air about him.”

      “The only air Mycroft has about him is redolent with the stench of paint solvent.  Besides, I was referencing the Napoleon-like potentate currently walking on my immediate left.”

John made a tremendous show of looking around for the potentate in question and then brightening like a sunrise when he ‘realized’ it was him.

      “Ah, but you’re not living with me, are you?  You’d think a scientist like you would notice something like that.”

      “The situation is sufficiently similar.  I am now sleeping in your livestock pen of a flat an equal number of nights as I sleep in Lestrade’s slightly-larger pen, so I may claim dual-citizenship.  It is rather evenly matched in comfort, also, for Lestrade’s sofa and your bed are equally as uncomfortable and cramped.”

      “Well… I can see about finding something larger, but I’m not entirely certain how I’d get it into my bedroom or if it would even fit if I could get the frame and mattress up the stairs.”

      “There is also the issue of your flatmate.  The lump.”

      “Oh, that’s a nice description.  Very succinct.”

      “And accurate.”

      “You’ll get no argument from me.  But, he does, somehow, find his half of the rent, so he’s a financially-useful lump.”

      “Is that absolutely necessary?”

      “What?”

      “His financial contribution.”

      “Yes!  Sherlock, my job pays reasonably well, but not enough to afford a flat and all the expenses of living, without help.  Believe me, I’d love to change the situation, but that’s not going to happen right now.”

      “But, you are hoping that, someday, it shall be different.”

      “Of course I am.  You know that.  We’ve talked about it often enough.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and John wondered if anything else would be coming out of his companion to, perhaps, address what was now a growing level of confusion.

      “Sherlock?”

      “Hmmm?”

      “Is this leading anywhere?”

      “No.  Not at the moment.”

And the confusion level rises yet again.  Deciding that Sherlock’s stubbornness would likely surge if he pushed for clarification, John let the subject drop and steered the student towards a nice little pub where the pints were cheap and Sherlock rarely finished his, so that meant more for the doctor with the slightly addled brain.  If and when Sherlock wanted to finish this conversation, he would do it, that much was certain.  Might as well have a good pint and a good night’s sleep with a comfortable, surly teddy while he waited…

__________

      “Abominable.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  If you would be a bit more specific as to your condemnation, I might have some idea how to reply.”

Mycroft smiled at his newly-arrived brother and could only hope the lateness of his visit meant he’d attended all of his day’s classes and not that he’d slept late with John.  Again.  Sherlock had become quite a devotee of sensual pleasures now that he had realized what they could mean with the right person.  His brother would never forget his one, miserable experience, but he had evidence, now, that it was not the only thing to expect from this world and had decided that sexual abandon was something that very much agreed with him.

      “This flat.”

      “I see.”

      “And John’s flat.”

      “Are you now a detractor of affordable housing?”

      “It is not affordable!  John cannot afford his flat without the lump.”

Mycroft set down his brush and cast a more critical eye over his brother.  Something was vexing Sherlock most seriously and if it were anyone but his brother, he might have an idea as to the reason.  However… Sherlock _had_ grown so profoundly of late…

      “Therefore, said lump cannot be evicted so that you might take his place.”

      “Precisely!  No!  Ridiculous.  Whatever has gotten into you?  You should open more windows for the paint fumes have obviously eroded your brain matter.”

And the arrow hits precisely at the center of the target.

      “It is a shame, really.  I am most certain John would appreciate a more collegial flatmate than what you have described as the person currently occupying that position.”

      “He is an odious, thieving dullard.”

      “High praise, indeed.”

Sherlock hurled himself onto the sofa and Mycroft debated only a moment before walking over to take the nearby chair and settle in for a conversation.

      “Have you discussed your desires with John?”

      “You are speaking lunacy again.”

      “Meaning no, you have not.”

      “Utter lunacy.”

      “He would leap at the offer, I believe.  Provided the economics of the situation was properly sorted.”

Mycroft watched Sherlock try his hardest not to cut eyes in his direction and counted the seconds until failure.  They amounted to three.

      “Unfortunately, brother, I cannot assist with the economics aspect at this point, though I would if I were at all able.  And, I doubt that Gregory could offer much in the way of financial support beyond what he already budgets towards your upkeep.  That being said, I feel certain he _would_ willingly give you that sum in cash if you chose to apply it to a, shall we say, change of circumstances.”

Sherlock continued to pout, but Mycroft could see the wheels turning in his brother’s head.

      “That is but a pittance.”

      “Perhaps, but it is a quantity greater than naught, which is the current value of your purse.”

The rude noise was entirely expected, but so was the slightly faster spinning of Sherlock’s mental wheels.

      “It is irrelevant, in any case.  Half of John’s rent exceeds a pittance.”

Good.  The ridiculous veneer had been stripped from the discussion and they could speak plainly.

      “You must also factor in the various additional expenses associated with existence, Sherlock.  Food, laundry, utilities…”

      “Was that supposed to be comforting?  If so, I believe you might find a dictionary to study the definition of the word.”

      “Acknowledging the practicalities of life is _not_ comforting, nor is it meant to be. But it _is_ necessary if one is contemplating taking them on for one’s self.  Your educational expenses I will continue to shoulder, so have no worry on that score, but, any remainder, beyond Gregory’s so-termed pittance would be yours to manage.   With John’s help, of course.”

      “Assuming that, in any manner, resembles my intentions.”

      “Kindly grant me some credit for perspicacity, brother dear, and waste no more of my time with your denials.”

      “Your time is wasted anyway with your doodling, so what does it matter?”

      “ANYWAY… as I am soon to be seeking employment, perhaps we might join forces somewhat to survey the availability of jobs for those with our rather particular temperaments and skill sets.”

Sherlock’s face was the perfect picture of disbelief and Mycroft mentally filed it away as a reference pose.

      “You?  A job?”

      “As I informed Gregory last night, I am hoping to broaden the exposure of my art, but, until that avenue becomes profitable, if it is _ever_ to come to pass, I would like to find something agreeable to earn _some_ portion of our living expenses.  A half-time position would likely earn for me what I saw from a full day at my spot by the garden and still allow me sufficient time to work on my art.  Gregory often returns home late, so he would not resent the situation if I, more of than I do currently, continue to work during our time together in the evening.  I see this as a very promising compromise between my art and the aforementioned practicalities of life and, if I _can_ help you, Sherlock, I promise that I will do so.  I simply have to situate myself first.”

      “You’re serious.”

      “Did you doubt it?”

      “Yes.”

      “Oh.  Well, then I am happy to disappoint you.”

Mycroft’s self-satisfied smile received Sherlock’s most petulant scowl, but Sherlock found his heart wasn’t really in it.  That his brother was actually both considering real employment _and_ seemed happy about the fact had to mean something positive for his mental health.  John said Mycroft’s past choices were not as much of a choice as they seemed, given the state of his mind and, now… he had to concede that the argument was likely true.  If this were a sign that there had been some improvement, even if it was small or temporary… this one time, he would let Mycroft’s pitiful attempt at humor stand without comment.

      “When do you plan to begin looking?”

      “Soon, though not tomorrow, if that is your question.  I still… there is the issue of mobility to consider and my ribs make… jostling a problem as I learned yesterday on the bus.”

      “Bus!  I do believe I have fallen down the rabbit hole.”

      “That was very close to my own thinking seeing my fellow passengers.  However, it served its purpose, though I am not keen to sample its favors again in the near future.  That might not, however, be an option, so I suppose I should begin to learn meditative techniques to see me through the horror.”

      “Lestrade will pay for cabs.”

      “Cabs are expensive.”

      “He will take a second job to earn cab fare.”

      “Why do I sense you are referring to your own transport and not my own?”

      “Because you know me.”

      “True.  However, neither of us shall drain Gregory’s pockets simply because we know well the pestilence and mental decay associated with public transportation.  Perhaps John will be kind enough to bolster our immunizations so we have some degree of defense against the various boils and sores we are likely to contract.”

      “No.”

And a quick, firm ‘no’ it was.

      “Ah.  You are reluctant to reveal your plan until you have a firmer idea of its potential.”

      “I did not say that.”

      “You did not need to.  Anyway, I will discuss the matter with Gregory and…”

      “No.”

      “Sherlock, if Gregory is to assist you in your endeavor…”

      “He is social with John.”

      “True, however, I believe we can rely on his discretion in this matter.”

      “No.”

      “Sherlock, I do not enjoy lying to Gregory.”

      “That does not stop you from doing it.”

      “I have only done such when it was absolutely necessary and you are well aware of that.”

Sherlock wondered if Mycroft had any idea how _much_ of their lives was actually devoted to lies and secrets.  Admittedly, they were for good reason, for, though he balked at the term, _caring_ reasons, but they were lies nonetheless.  On the other hand, perhaps Mycroft did.  He was not entirely oblivious, despite his artistic temperament.

      “I consider this very necessary, so we have an agreement.”

      “That was not a contract.”

      “We may debate the legal technicalities another time.  Now, I require a shower and tea.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and considered pushing forward, but decided that Sherlock might be scared away from his intentions if he pursued the matter at this time.  And that would not do.  This was a tremendously positive step for his brother and he would do _nothing_ to endanger it.  At some point, Sherlock himself would likely involved Gregory, if only for a letter of reference to support an application for a position, so his beloved would not be in the dark for terribly long.  Besides, Gregory would understand his reticence.  Their little Sherlock was becoming a man!   And leaving them with a very private flat.  He would begin the celebration planning post haste.

__________

Both Lestrade and John had some idea that _something_ was going on because their individual partners were just a little too quick to deny that anything was happening even though there was obviously some game afoot.  A hastily put away notebook, a painting left untouched for several days time, phone calls that went unanswered… to the average person, none of that would have added up to anything, but after a number of weeks of little snippets of evidence, there was no way a doctor or detective could fail to come to the same conclusion.  However, it was clear they were being kept well out of it and the general consensus, reached over a few pints at their traditional pub of commiseration, was that it was some brotherly business and they were probably _better off_ being kept well out of it, at least for the time being.

For Sherlock and Mycroft, it was a time of unprecedented concerted effort and a distressing amount of public transportation.  The frustrations were many, but so were the encouragements until they were finally able to heave a deep breath and declare their battle almost won.  This battle, at least.  Mycroft still had another, larger battle ahead but he had been able to use this time to formulate a plan of engagement to enter that particular fight, so that battle no longer seemed quite so insurmountable.

Knowing their final salvo had to be a forceful and united one, the brothers worked to coordinate their partner’s schedules to gain them a common day off and planned a family breakfast to set the gathering point.  So far, the gathering point was a convivial one…

      “Are these eggs or plastic, Lestrade?”

Or as convivial as their little family could muster.

      “Plastic.  Wanted to be sure you had something to sit in your stomach for a good long time.”

      “Sherlock, do be polite.  Gregory was kind enough to prepare breakfast and you would do well to show some gratitude.”

      “If the material on my plate hadn’t come from a chemical factory, I would be _very_ grateful.”

      “Oh well, more for me, then.”

Of course, Sherlock vigorously defended his plate from John’s attempted confiscation, leaving the doctor to steal from Lestrade instead.

      “Hey!  I wanted that toast!”

      “Lucky for you, you’ve got both bread and a toaster to make more.  Oh, and bring more jam.”

      “You’ve eaten half a jar, already.  Your teeth are going to fall out if you’re not careful.”

      “Don’t need teeth for jam.  Or toast either, if you give it a little while to soften up in your mouth.”

Mycroft and Sherlock simply shook their heads and let their partners have their fun.  Good moods were always conducive to receiving news and making propitious decisions… 

      “Well, you can gum your toast all you like, because that saves the sausages for me.”

      “Ahem.”

      “And Mycroft.”

      “AHEM!”

      “Did someone say something?  Love, I thought I heard a frog or something croaking away in that empty chair next to John.  Strange thing for London, but I never discount the action of witches.”

      “Gregory, do not tease Sherlock for he shall simply make your breakfast even more dreadful.  I shall happily obtain more toast for you while I start the kettle.  I find myself requiring a bit of additional fortification this morning.”

      “Oh, you and Greg have something fun on for today?”

      “To some degree, John.  And …”

Quickly glancing at his brother, Mycroft got the nod he hoped to see.

      “… aren’t you lucky that you shall be part of it.”

      “Me?”

      “You _and_ Sherlock, of course.   I daresay it would not be a good thing to rend you asunder on a day where you both have no fetters upon your time.  Well, perhaps a few fetters, however, I suspect those shall be quickly addressed so you might move on to more… entertaining things.”

John studied Mycroft a moment and, finding that as useless as always, turned to study Sherlock who was calmly eating his plastic and pushing it with the bit of sausage _he’d_ stolen from Mycroft’s unattended plate.  It was now his turn to share a look, though it was with Lestrade who seemed to be his only ally in whatever scheme was being planned, and this one also met with a nod of agreement.  Whatever the brothers had been  plotting, today was, apparently, the day their plot would hatch.

      “I see.  What you’re saying is you and Sherlock have something on the agenda and Greg and I are getting pulled along for the ride.”

      “Hmmm… yes, something of the sort.”

      “My Mycroft’s got a surprise up his sleeve, doesn’t he?”

Lestrade grinned knowingly at his artist and adored the pleased and slightly-smug grin he received in return.

      “Perhaps.”

      “I am also involved in this surprise!”

      “Yes, Sherlock, I actually figured that out.  John, give Sherlock a kiss so he feels appreciated.”

John puckered up and leaned towards Sherlock, who pressed a bit of egg into John’s mouth in protest of his lack on appropriate recognition.

      “What time is this surprise going to be unveiled, love?”

      “I believe we have sufficient time to leisurely enjoy our lovely meal.  In truth there is no timetable we must follow, so the specific plan for the day is most fluid.  So, would you like coffee or tea with your surplus toast, my dear?”

Deciding there would be no extra clues dropped, Lestrade chose to focus on the leisure and let the other bits of the day tend to themselves for now on.  He’d find out soon enough what his beautiful artist was up to… but _one_ last push wouldn’t hurt…

      “Coffee, please.  Part of me suspects I might need the extra caffeine.”

      “Well… I cannot say that is entirely untrue.  Or, rather, it might be true given the proper circumstances.”

Still at the starting line… his artist was having entirely too much fun with this…

__________

      “So… Sherlock.  Want to tell me where we’re going?”

      “No.”

John huffed and thought about giving Sherlock’s cheerfully defiant smile a fattened lip, but realized an impaired Sherlock would be a tremendous pain in his arse, so only one person of this couple would suffer this morning.

      “Not even a hint?”

      “London.”

      “Bastard.”

Following a few steps behind, Lestrade mentally chastised John for being a useless interrogator and happily ignored the hypocrisy of his evaluation.

      “Mycroft…”

      “Now, now Gregory… it is as if you have no capacity for patience.”

      “I’ve got LOTS of capacity.  I’m just choosing not to use it right now.”

      “Very contrary of you, my dear.”

      “Sneaky Mycroft makes me nervous, what can I say?”

      “Then I promise to devote time today to soothing your humors.”

      “In a sexy way?”

      “In any manner you prefer.”

      “Well… that sounds nice.”

      “So, I might be forgiven my bit of suspense?”

      “I suppose.  Just remind me to make a stop on the way home.”

      “Oh?”

      “We’re going to need some lube.  _I’m_ going to need some lube, is a better way of saying it, I guess.”

Lestrade loved when Mycroft’s slightly modest and fussy side made him blush the rosiest shade of pink.

      “Oh.  I… we… we have not done _that_ in quite some time.”

Not since before Mycroft’s ‘accident,’ actually, but might as well make today a day of surprises all around.  He’d kept the newspaper away from his artist yesterday, so Mycroft didn’t see the photo that accompanied the story about a certain person being dragged into court on some truly ugly charges that said person had about zero chance of squirming out of, so today was about surprises and celebrations, though that last part would stay his secret for now.  Time for an arm around the waist and a bit of breathy whispering in that perfect, beautiful ear.

      “No, we haven’t and I miss having you inside me, love.  It feels _so_ good.”

Pink getting pinker.  Could his artist be any cuter?  

      “I thought that with your knee and ribs, I could take a little ride and we both get to have a nice time.  And you get to lay back and enjoy the fun.  Maybe use those talented hands of yours for making me see stars.  Or I could just show myself a good time and you could watch me do it.  Watch me take you inside me and stroke my cock until I’m screaming your name while I come.  How does that sound?”

Just a tiny lick along the edge of Mycroft’s ear to really tip him from vibrant pink to cherry red and kiss him tenderly on the cheek  while savoring the small bit of revenge for all this cloak-and-dagger business.  Surprises or now, this was a spectacularly good day…

      “That… I… that is, I believe that sounds most agreeable.”

      “Good.  Now, you get your humors calm before Sherlock notices and smashes all the windows in the area with his shrieking.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and tugged his jacket so that it definitely covered the erection he was now sporting.  His Gregory was a masterful, devastating villain.  However, the final outcome of this villainy would be supremely pleasurable, so there would be no rebellion due to the use of extremely unfair tactics.  If he was very lucky, more unfair tactics would be in store during the day, especially if he hinted quite forcefully…

__________

It was not very long before Sherlock and Mycroft’s rather circuitous route could no longer conceal their destination and both Lestrade and John breathed a small sigh of relief that their day would be helping Mrs. Hudson with something or other, rather than a more involved or ‘oh no’ inspiring activity.

      “And here we are!  The terminus of our lovely morning walk.”

      “So you brought John and I along for our strong backs, I’ll wager.”

Mycroft pinched Lestrade’s cheek and smiled sweetly.

      “It is one of your most useful attributes, my dear.”

Lestrade looked at John and both fell into gorilla postures, making grunting noises and beating their chests as they clambered up to the door and pounded on it while hooting a loud greeting.

      “Well, brother dear, there is still time to change your mind.  Consider the magnitude of the banana bill in your future.”

Sherlock snorted, but was happy Mrs. Hudson answered the door before the animal welfare officers arrived to set a tranquilizing dart in his partner’s buttocks.

      “Right on time!  Oh, this is a wonderful thing.  All of you with big smiles and bright eyes.  Come in!  There’s lots to do so you’d best get started.”

Mrs. Hudson shot a look at Mycroft who silently informed her that the other two were still in the proverbial dark about the purpose of their visit, something that was fine with her since she got to be there for all the excitement.

The gorilla pack followed Mrs. Hudson up the stairs despite both Sherlock and Mycroft’s moue’s of disapproval, but packed away their antics seeing the job they believed they had in front of them.

      “Ok… yeah, I remember you said you wanted to rent some space so I suppose this is it?”

      “It is, John!  Isn’t it a wonderful flat?  Come on, take a look around.”

Mrs. Hudson grabbed John’s hand and dragged him around to see the kitchen and bedrooms while Lestrade did some mental calculations about how long and how many back pills he was going to need to clear away all the clutter and get the flat into rentable shape.

      “This is a solid day’s work.  Sherlock, don’t think for one moment you’re going to play the wilting violet either.  We’ll need all hands for this one.”

      “Mycroft is far more wilty than am I.”

      “True, but he can handle little things and make the tea.”

While Sherlock orated on the societal detriments of favoritism, Lestrade began nosing through the various boxes and piles, wondering how much the future landlady had already sorted for things to keep and things to go to charity or the rubbish bins.  Fortunately, he only had to wonder for a few moments, as Mrs. Hudson and a somewhat dazed John returned from their tour.

      “Isn’t your Greg a good lad, Mycroft?  Already jumping in to get the job done.  I already know what’s to stay and what’s to go, dear, so that bit’s done.”

      “Great!  Well, you just lay things out for Mycroft and he can act as manager for the rest of us.  Not a word, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who gave him an encouraging nod, and took a deep breath before starting.

      “I have no intention of rebutting, Lestrade, because Mycroft already knows the disposition of the various items and has already made arrangements with a rubbish collection service and several charity organizations to collect certain things that…”

Sherlock looked again at his brother, who smiled at him and mentally wished his brother all strength and luck for the next few minutes to come.

      “… that John and I will not need when we take up residence.”

Lestrade’s ‘Good. That…’ stopped dead in its tracks as his brain dragged him back to reexamine Sherlock’s sentence in greater detail.  For his part, John’s brain was doing its best to understand anything, at all.

      “What?  Sherlock… what do you mean what you and I won’t need?”

      “It is my intention… my hope… that you might… that is to say… you are not content with your current living arrangements and neither am I, as I have indicated on more than one occasion, so I propose that we, instead, live here.  Together, if that part was not entirely clear.  It’s… it’s quite a nice flat…”

Sherlock’s attempt to smile as encouragingly and convincingly as possible broke through John’s mental fog, which let a lot of light into his though processes to help them grow.  Sherlock… this was…

      “You want to live with me?”

      “That is not the relevant question.  I would hope that _you_ would want to live with _me_ , as I already know my opinion on the situation.”

John stared at the student and let the idea sink in.  Live with Sherlock.  _Live_ with Sherlock.  Not sleep with or visit or have a night out with, but live.  Share a home and all the crap that went along with sharing a home with somebody.  Though, as the idea sank farther in, he realized that it was silly anyway.  There was no chance they could afford this flat!

      “We couldn’t afford this flat, Sherlock!  It’s big and in an expensive area.  Mrs. Hudson must want…”

      “Oh, don’t worry about that, Doctor Watson.  Mycroft and I have worked that out already.”

Now, all eyes were on Mycroft who preened at what he felt was a job very well done.

      “Yes, well… I agree that Mrs. Hudson could see quite a tidy rent for this property and I would never see her lose funds, regardless of the situation.  Based on a fair market analysis of the area, I determined an appropriate rent figure and have taken steps to see the cost met in full.”

      “How?  Mycroft, I can tell you that I’m already at my limit with my current flat and it’s nowhere near…”

      “And that is nearly the cost you will continue to pay, John, with Sherlock covering an equal amount.”

      “Then you did a shite job on your market analysis, mate.  This could rent for…”

      “Quite a bit more, yes I know.  However, I did say other steps were to be taken.”

      “Mycroft is a genius!  He’s an absolute genius and don’t any of you forget it.”

Mrs. Hudson’s excitement had her beaming because this was the best possible thing that could happen, in her opinion. For the boys, but for her, too.  Two dear things she already knew living upstairs, people in the house to keep things lively… the income was a nice boost, but that was the lesser of the joys.  She would have been happy to take less since it would be Sherlock and his doctor taking the flat, but Mycroft insisted she get her due.  Such a good boy and, truly, a proper genius for working it all out, despite Sherlock’s adorable little scowl.

      “Mycroft is a pedantic meddler, but he occasionally has his uses.  Few and far between as they are.”

Lestrade felt he had been very patient until now, but his curiosity and shock were threatening to boil into the shouting level and that wasn’t helpful.  Time to set his harpoon into the whale.

      “Alright, time for some very plain speaking.  Someone kindly tell me what’s going on and use very few and very small words.”

Because his lover could spin words forever and neatly avoid the actual point the entire time, which would put shouting right back on the agenda.

      “Good heavens, Gregory.  I know very well that your level of comprehension is more than acceptable for this conversation.”

      “Too many words and syllables, none of which are helping, love.”

      “Very well.  John and Sherlock shall divide a base payment that is a bit below the rent for John’s current flat.  The discrepancy is to give the two some additional margin for expenses and the occasional bit of recreation.  The remainder shall be covered by a renting of 221C, which I negotiated with the individual who recently purchased the adjacent property and hopes to turn it into an eatery.  There is somewhat a shortage of storage space and Sherlock and my former flat would fit that particular bill nicely.”

      “I couldn’t rent it out again to anyone, you know.  Sherlock and Mycroft suffered so terribly there.  Couldn’t do that to a body, but boxes and crates don’t care.  Mycroft got a good rate, too, easily enough to top off the rent to a very lovely level.  I told you he was a genius.  Not everybody could have done all of that.  And get Sherlock a job, on top of it.”

That nearly popped both Lestrade and John’s eyes out of their head, but it answered the other big question that was hammering at the walls of their skull.

      “Sherlock?  A job?”

      “Why do you sound surprised?”

John didn’t know if he should laugh because Sherlock appeared absolutely serious.  But… a job?

      “I am, I suppose.  You’ve never shown _any_ interest in working.  In fact, you deride Greg and me all the time for working a job.”

      “That is because your jobs are idiotic.  Mine is not.  At least, not entirely.”

      “Mycroft… want to tell me what you did?”

The artist smiled at his lover and enjoyed the continuing suspense as long as he could before answering.

      “I may have had a small word with Sherlock’s lab supervisor and the head of his college.  A thorough perusal of Sherlock’s research notes and several published papers by members of the research staff raise some interesting questions.  Questions that a college would surely not want to find their way to the newspapers who might find a story about stealing someone’s research a most juicy one.  The fact that it is highly frowned upon in the scientific community is really the more minor of the concerns.”

      “What!  Sherlock, they stole your research?”

      “You cannot arrest them, Lestrade, so please do not yell in my ear.  And stole is not the correct term.  Once I have found the answer to my question I really have no interest in how the information is disseminated.”

      “So… you _let_ them steal your work.”

      “One cannot steal what someone else does not covet.”

      “However, that was not quite the argument I put forth to the university officials and now Sherlock has a research assistant’s position that shall become a full research post, if he chooses, upon graduation.  However, his supplemental job might tickle my brother’s fancy and turn his head in that direction, instead.”

      “Supplemental?  Oh no… you’re grinning like the cat who got the cream.”

Mycroft widened his smile even further and took Lestrade’s hand to pat sympathetically.

      “I also had a small word with your Inspector.  We enjoyed a most cordial discussion about Sherlock’s assistance during his community service work and he feels, as do I, that Sherlock could make a valuable and _continued_ contribution to our community through the utilization of his highly unique skill set and, of course, receive a small consultant’s fee for his work.  In so much as the budget allows, of course.  The case clearance rate during Sherlock’s tenure showed a notable rise and that is, naturally, quite beneficial for the reputation of your particular station, so it was not a terribly hard argument to make for Sherlock’s cooperation in future efforts.  The most auspicious aspect, of course, is that Sherlock would report to you as his direct supervisor.  Isn’t that delightful?”

Lestrade stared at Mycroft, but all he could see was his Inspector laughing at the hell his life had now become.  Sherlock with an official stamp to haunt his desk… the agony was unbearable…

      “Oh, delightful doesn’t even come close.”

Mycroft gave his partner a kiss on his cheek and marveled that his Gregory had yet to voice the protest that was screaming to come racing out of his mouth.  Not that it would do any good… his superior was _very_ eager to see how effective this particular model would be, at least in small scale, and was unquestionably amenable to assigning Gregory the additional responsibility of monitoring Sherlock on his periodic visits.  In point of fact, the artist was of the mind it was a test of leadership potential for his lover and that said only good things about Gregory’s future advancement in the ranks.  That benefit had been particularly sweet.

      “So, between the two income sources and… perhaps a small, infrequent infusion from our own coffers should an emergency arise… Sherlock shall successfully be able to manage his share of the rent and household expenses.  That is… if the situation becomes necessary.”

Mycroft looked at John with only a slight worry, since the doctor had been quiet for some time and seemed to be looking around the flat with, fingers crossed, an eye devoted to planning.

      “Is that my cue?”

      “Do not pressure John!  It is his decision to make and he needs none of your insidious harassment while he thinks.”

That, on its own, did a lot to sway John towards saying yes.  This was so much to take in, though!  Living with Sherlock… that was… that said something.  It said a _lot_ of something, actually.  This wasn’t going to be a normal flat share when you and the other person went about your own business and didn’t even have to be friendly if you didn’t want to.  This was… _living_ with Sherlock.   Sharing a bedroom and a breakfast table.  Watching films and doing the shopping and arguing over the spending… having people in for a visit, though that would probably just be Greg and Mycroft.  Fighting and having to work it out because you lived in the same place and really had nowhere to hide for very long.  It was what you did with someone you cared about.  Someone you wanted to be part of your life, not just part of your space.  It was what Greg and Mycroft did and it would be for the same reasons.

John took another long look around the flat and then at the person who had asked him to share it.  _Asked_ him.   Not what he would have expected.  Who had been thinking about this and planning it for awhile.  Not really Sherlock’s normal, impetuous style.  Who got a job so it was possible.  Not at _all_ to be expected.  Who was leaving his cozy, carefree nest to feather another one without the safety net of his brother or Greg taking care of him.  Relying on someone else to be there for the daily frustrations and disappointments… and look at him now.  Trying to hide how scared and nervous he was.  How hopeful and anxious and fucking insecure he was.  Sherlock had put his all on the line and maybe it was a rash thing to do and a slightly theatrical way of doing it, but that much was _pure_ Sherlock.

And John wouldn’t have it any other way.

      “Oh, are you waiting on me?  Not sure why… I’m already deciding if I should bring my dishes or if we should just buy new ones.”

Sherlock’s very rare smile broke out brightly and stayed for a full two seconds before he packed it away and affected his typical air of disinterest.

      “Your tableware is appalling.  Lestrade has more than he and Mycroft need, so we will take the surplus.  As well as the towels and bed linens.”

      “No!  You’re not doing your shopping at my flat.  You march yourself down to the shops and do this properly.”

Lestrade wagged a finger at Sherlock, who ignored it completely and, instead, grabbed John by the hand and pulled him close.

      “Very well.  Give me the funds to purchase the items and I shall not take yours.”

      “You extortionist bastard.  Sorry, Mrs. Hudson.”

A quick peek in his wallet found a couple of quid Lestrade felt he could spare, if only to protect his and Mycroft’s few belongings from a forced relocation.

      “Here.  It’s not much, but you don’t need much to get started.  Mycroft and I will get going here, but I want you back in no more than two hours.  We have a lot to do and I am _not_ doing all of this alone.”

      “Of course not.  The rubbish removal company will assist.  Make certain to have their fee ready for I have no doubt they are from the rougher strata of society and will not appreciate your pleas of poverty.”

      “What?  Wait!”

Sherlock darted out the door of 221B, dragging John along and followed closely by Mrs. Hudson who needed to start something for the boys to nibble while they worked.  Strong arms needed a full stomach and she hadn’t done any _real_ baking in such a long time…

      “Mycroft?”

      “Fear not, my dear.  I negotiated a most favorable cost and I do have some funds remaining in my own proverbial bank to help offset the expenditure.”

      “I see.  Look at you… only you could have done this, Mycroft.  I will never, not ever, fail to be in awe of that mind of yours.”

Lestrade took Mycroft in a long kiss and then held him gently for what seemed a year while he let his feelings for his partner dance around inside him.  His Mycroft was the most amazing man in the world and he would never see a day pass where he did not remind the artist of that simple fact.

      “And I’ll start putting money aside for those two, don’t you worry.  It’s hard finding the right balance when you get started out and you know Sherlock’s going to burn through his wages like a house afire for the first few months.”

      “I know that you will, Gregory and…”

      “Oh?  Oh… I know that look.  Seen it today, actually.  Several times.  What else is there you haven’t told me?”

Mycroft’s ‘who me?’ innocent face made Lestrade laugh and earned the artist another kiss.

      “I did mention that I would seek my own employment, did I not?”

      “You got a job?”

      “Well… made one, is, perhaps, a better description.”

      “Do tell.”

      “I shall.  While sorting Sherlock’s situation, I took the time to investigate the various art museums in the city for the possibility of a position, hopefully as a guide of some form.  There was little on offer, however, one institution did grant me an interview and our conversations wandered through several areas, including the, shall we say, persons with surplus income, and the ability of the museum to convince them to part with it.”

      “And you think you can do that for them?”

      “I know I can.  An analysis of successful patterns for other institutions and, factoring in the lack of insight by, I regret to say, the majority of the population, I scripted an, shall we call it, audition, which led to a small fundraiser that netted the museum quite a happy sum.  The fact that I am an artist and understand their product as well as the artists that produce it was also a feather in my cap.”

Lestrade blinked in pure shock at Mycroft’s words, something which quickly changed to awe at the man in his arms.

      “You really did that?  What… what did you do?”

      “Oh, I reminded them of the rather unbreakable and consuming bond between society mavens and their pets.  My suggestion was a luncheon event where the dear ladies could bring their animals for a bit of supervised socialization and where there might be an artist on hand to create sketches of the ladies and their beloved cat or dog.”

      “And that artist was you.”

      “My experience at sketching individuals with little time to sit and inability to sit quietly for any appreciable duration _did_ make me a strong candidate for the position.  I… I actually have two full-portrait commissions scheduled from ladies who were most taken with the likeness I rendered.”

      “You… I can’t… you really did that?”

      “I certainly did and, I must say, I am most pleased with my efforts and the results.  As was the museum governing board.  I also critiqued their history of purchases for their own collection and have a number of ideas how to more effectively allocate their budget monies for a better investment and prestige of collection.  I admit to a weak knowledge of the current art climate, however, they are most traditional in their tastes and that is an area in which I am highly knowledgeable.  Fortunately, I have not been idle in my London years and have devoted some time to perusing auction records and periodicals for price, purchase and investment trends.”

      “Don’t… don’t they already have people to do that?”

      “Yes, but not with my degree of efficiency.  In truth, without an influx of monies from government and corporate sources I suspect they would have closed their doors long ago, but I believe I can perform some turnaround and set them on a sounder path, with less interference by the aforementioned culturally-bankrupt interests. At that point, my services may no longer be required, beyond escorting school groups through the halls of the Old Masters, however….”

      “You’re hoping that _you_ won’t need _them_ anymore because you’ll be a famous, successful artist and they’ll be begging to _buy_ your paintings.”

      “That is my plan… but, who knows if that shall come to pass.”

Lestrade wanted to shake Mycroft and shake him hard to dislodge whatever still clogged the pipes of his self-confidence.  Did he hear what he just said?  Mycroft, the artist who lived poorer than a church mouse, stepped up and did something not a person in a hundred could do.  In a thousand, even!  What his artist could have done all those years, all those horrible, miserable years if he’d been able to push through some of the blackness that held him like fucking tar and never let him go.  Only a little wriggle, just the tiniest bit out of its clutches and he was a force of nature!

      “It’s going to, love.  I mean… look at what you did!  You, Mycroft… you who barely peeked out of your cave the whole time you were in London and now you… they’re going to pay you, right?  I mean, if you’re helping them and… are you actually going to conduct any tours…”

      “Yes, I shall spend a few hours each morning helping visitors interpret the various works they are viewing.  Rest assured I _am_ receiving some funds for my work and, though, it is not a princely sum, I did negotiate, in addition, a minute percentage of raised funds from endeavors in which I had a hand, as a bonus.  On occasion, too, are exhibitions by new artists and I shall be able to place a piece in them as well as attend the events that I see organized, if I so choose.  The weekly wage, I admit, is in line with what I expected for a half-time job in a shop or some such, however, the ancillary benefits are significant and bonus monies not inconsequential.”

      “Mycroft… I don’t know what to say.  This is fantastic.  This is… this is absolutely, unimaginably fantastic.  I still can’t believe… I can’t believe you just got out there and did this!”

      “In some ways, neither can I...”

A darkness passed through Mycroft’s eyes that Lestrade despised seeing, but expected from the moment Mycroft began describing his success.

      “… for I could have done this years ago, Gregory.  I could have taken these steps and bought for Sherlock and myself a far better life.  It was such a minor thing, in some ways, and… there was no reason for Sherlock to suffer for so long, except for my choices.  That much is scorchingly and painfully clear.”

      “Wrong.  You could not, not for a minute, be more wrong.  There was a massive, elephant-sized reason stopping you and if you could have done this earlier, you would have.  You _would_ have, Mycroft, but you could no more have taken this step than you could have cut off your fingers.  It wasn’t a choice you could make and I know you’re struggling with that and probably always will, to some degree, but you can’t ever forget the fact that you were sick.  A person can’t choose to make their cancer vanish and you couldn’t choose to make what’s in your head vanish, either.  Now, you’ve got the opportunity to work on it, but getting to this point took a lot of work and finding the right people to give you some help.  Don’t think poorly of yourself, love.  Be proud.  Be stupidly and arrogantly proud, because you deserve it.  You’re going forward and not sliding backward and, even if you do have some slips, and I won’t be surprised if you do, they don’t erase the progress you’ve made.  You’ll just pick yourself up and keep going, just like you’ve been doing.  And I’ll be there the whole time, giving you all the love and support that I can.”

Mycroft rested his head on Lestrade’s shoulder and let his partner’s warm arms hold him tightly.  In some ways, his clear and rather easy success in this one venture had been a source of intense shame and that was partly why he had hidden matters from the man who owned his heart.  Of course, as always, Gregory proved just why he _not_ should hide these things, but, instead,  bring them into the light for his beloved to view through his unclouded lens of perception.

      “Have you been talking about this with your therapist?”

      “I have.  And will continue to do so.”

      “That’s my artist.  Well, we’re definitely going to need lube tonight, so I should get started before tonight becomes tomorrow morning and I’m crap for work all day.  Have to set a good example for my new partner.  Thanks for that, by the way.”

Mycroft felt his gray skies clearing and a giggle sneak out from between his lips.

      “If it is any consolation, I do not think it will be a frequent occurrence.  Moreover, Sherlock is actually intrigued by the possibility, now that it does not bear the stigma of mandated service, so he may slightly less recalcitrant in his behavior.”

      “Wonderful.  Well, at least I can keep an eye on him and see his mouth doesn’t get him dragged off to a dark corner for a lesson in manners.”

      “I would appreciate that.  As would John.”

      “Oh god… I can’t get my brain around that, yet.  He… he actually asked John to live with him.  I… if anything I thought it would be the other way around and we might have to coax Sherlock out from under the sofa afterwards.  This is mind-boggling, but I’m thrilled.  I’m positively _thrilled_ for them.  They’re going to be great together, I really believe that.”

      “As do I, something I thought I would never say about my brother and any other human.  John has been a blessing for Sherlock and it is with no small measure of pride that I can say Sherlock has been beneficial for John, as well.”

      “But, poor Mrs. Hudson.”

      “Yes, that is an unfortunate bit of collateral damage, though the dear woman believes this to be her own special blessing.”

      “She’ll learn fast enough.  But, she survived her arse of a husband, so this should actually be a lot easier.”

      “True, I did forget she was decidedly battle-hardened.”

      “I doubt the Mr. brought home dibs and dabs from the morgue, though.”

      “There is that.  I do hope their first major purchase is a second refrigerator, for I would not like to be in the vicinity when John finds a head or some such staring back at him when he reaches for the milk.”

      “I’ll put that on their Christmas list.”

      “Prudent planning.  I am most impressed.”

      “Impressed enough for a little honey fun before lube?”

      “Unquestionably.”

      “Look out boxes, here I come!”

Lestrade dove across the room and began pushing boxes marked RUBBISH towards the stairs, grinning widely while Mycroft laughed, then began looking for the makings of a cup of tea.  Fortification was definitely the watchword of the day.  His Gregory was a _most_ vigorous man.   Loving, supportive, caring and possessing the stamina of a prize stallion.  This was truly a day of days… and would end with a night of nights…

__________

This had been a year of years… Lestrade looked around and wished it wasn’t such a posh event so he could let out a loud whoop and maybe dance a few steps in celebration.  His artist had done it!  A show in one of the top galleries in London… this was the king of all dreams come true!  It hadn’t been easy, though.  Not at all.  Mycroft worked tirelessly to get his work some exposure.  Applied for countless exhibitions, talked up his work at all those fundraising things he helped plan for the museum, took commissions even if they sometimes bored him silly, went around from gallery to gallery, trying to get them to look at his stuff and a hundred other things, it seemed, to get some attention for his art.  Even though his love’s work reached right into your soul and stirred it like a soup pot, it was brutally slow going.

Not that they needed the money, though.  Between what he made and what Mycroft was bringing in, they were doing well.  Actually, if Mycroft decided not to worry about selling any paintings, they could live a comfortable life because his artist was gaining a real reputation among the museum crowd for his big and mighty brain.  Already, other museums were sidling up to ask for advice, something for which Mycroft made them pay dearly.  And the various investors and collectors had started asking him over for lunches and drinks to get his opinion on things they were considering buying or selling, something Mycroft also made them pay nicely for.  His lover was beginning to earn a very tidy living just from that magnificent mind of his and his ability to… well, manipulate was an unflattering term, so he’d go with manage… _manage_ people so that they did what he said they should do so everybody profited.  He made money, museums and a few art colleges that had jumped on his love’s shoulders made money, investors and collectors made money… his Mycroft was becoming the genius behind the scenes of the art world and nobody was happier about it that the Detective Constable who worshipped the ground he walked on.

But Mycroft couldn’t be satisfied with just that.  His lover’s ambition was to be _here_ , with people experiencing his art and he’d finally, _finally_ , made it.  A painting now and then in a group show.  A bit of word of mouth among the wealthy set from his museum work.  A little mention in an article in the newspaper.  Then a bigger mention.  Followed by a photo with a mention.  Then a small story in one of those art magazines that only a handful of people actually read.  But, they’re the right people and that opens doors to more exhibitions and more commission work… it had taken over a year, which really wasn’t much time at all, but it was a LONG time when you were dreaming every night about the moment the doors opened on your own show.

And it had.  About an hour and fifteen minutes ago, in fact.  Mycroft had been nervous as an expectant father so John had kept Sherlock far away from the flat and the gallery before opening so Mycroft wouldn’t actually go insane the day of his big break.  They were here somewhere, now, possibly taking a moment, because Mycroft hadn’t held back choosing paintings for this show.  He’d brought the most powerful pieces he had and those were not easy to look at for those who really knew what had motivated them.  There were lots of others, too, but… it had been a tough thing to see when certain paintings were all up and displayed at once and you had to face both the power of the work and the memories that accompanied them.

But, Sherlock and John could also be twenty feet away and he’d have a hard time seeing them.  The place was packed!  The policeman in him was wondering if they were violating the fire code with all the bodies packed in, but the rest of him was shouting down that part fairly easily.  He’d seen his Inspector escorting his wife around earlier, anyway, so he could handle any legal dealings and issues of crowd control.  Actually, he’d seen a lot of familiar faces, which would please Mycroft to no end.  Nobody with any money to buy anything, but the moral support would mean a lot to his artist.  Besides, anyone they knew could get a free painting anytime they wanted one, so they were just here to show his lover how proud they were and that was worth its weight in gold.

      And… was that his Mycroft over there talking to that nice-looking bloke.  The most certainly nice-looking bloke, if he was to have a say in the matter…

      “The stench of your jealousy is overpowering the rancid odor of pretentiousness that permeates this wretched establishment.”

      “Sherlock!  Thought you’d slithered out, but I guess that leash John put around your neck is doing its job.”

      “You are not funny, Lestrade.”

      “Actually, I think I am.”

      “You cannot think, so your point is moot.”

      “Lovely.  See if I let you scamper off with John for a little afternoon fun next time _I’m_ holding your leash and you’re supposed to be working on a case.”

      “Hey!  That punishes me as much as it does him and I’m on my best behavior tonight.”

John shouldered the last bit of distance through the crowd to their tiny conversation pod and handed Sherlock a glass of wine.

      “Then _you_ think of something to keep him civil.”

      “I _have_ something, but I don’t think it will work for you, because you don’t actually give him oral to threaten to withhold it if he’s being a bastard.”

      “And thank heavens for it.  But… do either of you recognize who Mycroft’s talking to?”

      “Lestrade is jealous and that is the most amusing thing I’ve endured this evening.”

      “Shut it, Sherlock.  I can see why… very good-looking, actually.  And Mycroft’s been at his most charming, too.”

      “He’s supposed to be charming, you stupid doctor.  He’s trying to sell his paintings and get some… word… going about his work.  But… he _is_ particularly attractive when he’s being smooth and charming.  And with that nice new outfit and scarf…”

      “John, take me home.  This is making me ill.”

      “Drink your wine, then, and maybe the fruit will be good for your health.  I’m having a fine time watching Greg come apart at the seams.”

      “I’m not coming apart!  I’m… well, maybe I’m a little… not concerned, really, but…”

      “That is Mycroft’s therapist and they are probably discussing something dreary and horrible, such as art.”

      “Thanks for that, Sherlock.  I could have kept Greg would up tighter than a piano wire all night if you hadn’t gone and ruined things.”

      “Your entertainment was not worth my nausea, John.”

      “That’s… that’s Mycroft’s therapist?”

Lestrade hoped he didn’t look at stupid as he felt, but refrained from even asking the rhetorical question because Sherlock _would_ answer and give it is personal, special touch.

      “Yes, and Sherlock, the fun-sucker, is right.  They’re probably talking art, so don’t worry about any sneaking off behind the gallery for a little of the quick and dirty.”

Sherlock stole John’s wine and swallowed it down, scowling at the continued direction of the conversation.

      “Just for that, you wretched doctor, you’re carrying the heavy stuff on Thursday.”

John made a rude noise, but secretly did his own little mental jig.  Part of it was fueled by his doctor’s side and part by his friend’s side, but he couldn’t actually be happier right now if he tried.  Even if his back was going to break before the week was over, his patient and his patient’s partner deserved his happiness for weathering what had been a monsoon of a storm and weathering it more successfully than many others could have, given the circumstances.

      “I, however, still refuse to help you move.”

      “And I still say I don’t care, Sherlock.  I helped you and John get settled, so you’re going to do the same for me and Mycroft, whether you like it or not.”

      “ _Not_ will be the condition under which I slave.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn for a rude noise, but Lestrade could tell the soon-to-be former student was actually pleased by the turn of events.  Once Sherlock and John were settled, he and Mycroft had talked on and off about finding another flat.  Something with a little extra space, not for another bedroom, but for a studio for Mycroft to paint.  In the last several months, the conversations had become more frequent and, with actual money in the bank, they’d started looking.  It had taken a _lot_ of  looking, too, to find something that worked, but when they did… it was perfect.  Not too far from Baker Street and a little run-down so the price was good.  Top floor of a fairly large, older house so there was a decent amount of space, though it wasn’t palatial by any means, but the winning thing was they got the attic, as well.  And the attic was… Mycroft fell in love with it immediately.  There were windows that looked out on three sides and they were high enough that his artist could see out into the city and over the garden where he’d spent so many years setting up his easel.  It was the ideal studio and the landlord had no issue letting them fix up the space any way they would like, so they’d signed the lease the very day they saw it.

      “If I promise to pay for whatever take-away you want, will that make you happy?”

      “Marginally.”

      “Then that’s settled.  Now, if you two will excuse me, I have an artist to go and kiss.”

John laughed as Greg straightened his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair in a move that rivaled Sherlock for drama.  Actually, if the DC had a clue as to how many questions John and Sherlock had overheard about the extremely shaggable partner of the artist, he might not be quite so jealous.  Mycroft, however, would be apocalyptic…

__________

      “Mycroft… this is sensational.  I don’t think I’ve seen a show this powerful in years.”

      “Thank you, Miles.  I am very glad you could come as I do value your opinion on this subject.”

      “I would have been an idiot not to come!  Even _I_ heard a few whispers about this being a _very_ anticipated show and that’s not something to miss.  So far, I’ve seen a favorable number of art critics I recognize, as well as other prominent voices in the art community.  And the various watches and jewels I’m seeing says there are some deep pockets in attendance.  How are sales?”

      “Good, actually.  I admit that I am not paying heed to that end of the matter, but I _have_ noticed a surprising number of the small notices that indicate a piece has been sold.  This shall make many hands happy as there will be fewer canvases to take home when the curtain closes.”

      “Well, I wish you all the luck in the world.  You deserve it, Mycroft.  You worked hard for this.  And, someone with your talent needs to be seen by as many as are able.”

      “That… that means a great deal to me and I am very grateful to hear it.  It seemed this day would never come.  That it never _could_ come, but… here we are!”

      “And it’s only the beginning.  I can already tell you that a showing like this, with this level of attendance and attention, is going to win you another.  Expect the calls to start coming in from other galleries and various art groups.  You’re going to make your mark, Mycroft, and I think you’ve got the staying power to _continue_ to make that mark.  Not all artists do, but your work resonates on so many levels, strikes so many chords… and, in many cases, is just damned lovely to look at.  I expect nothing but significant things for you, Mycroft.  Just remember the people who were here at the start and sell to us on discount, alright?”

Mycroft laughed, but felt his heart clench at the words.  He had waited so long to hear something like that from someone in the know.  It was validation on a level that made him nearly dizzy with giddiness and… he had to admit that he had heard similar from other of the attendees… this was a profound experience, but one that was also most overwhelming…

      “I shall forever offer the so-termed ‘family rate’ for my earliest of supporters.”

      “Yes!  Well, I’m going to take a look around and see if there’s something I want to take home with me tonight and make space on my wall for my collection to grow over the years.”

      “Please, if there is anything you desire, simply alert the gallery owner and…”

      “No, it’s not coming home with me for free, but I _will_ tell him that I’ll be getting a special price set by you.  And I do expect it to be a fair one.  Don’t sell yourself cheap, Mycroft.  Your work is worth every penny.  I’ll talk to you again later… it looks like your time is about to be monopolized…”

Darting away, Mycroft’s therapist smiled at the memory of his patient’s partner bearing down with a look of jealous curiosity on his face.  The man truly did look exactly like Mycroft’s sketches and was exactly the sort of person to see his patient through this joyful, but tumultuous time.  Always one to let Mycroft know he was the best thing going and there was no end to the support he’d given, even when his own time was in short supply.  Mycroft got very lucky with that one and, fortunately, his patient was happy to cling tightly to that bit of luck.  Now… off to see if anything was in his possible price range, even with special consideration as a personal friend, or close enough, of the artist.  His eye for the art market had never let him down and this eye said getting in now and buying what he could would be a tremendous investment for the future.  Mycroft might work in a museum now, but he’d be proudly _shown_ in museums someday and it would be his honor to be able to say he knew the artist back in the day…

__________

      “Gregory!  You look as if you are worried for my virtue.”

      “Do you blame me?  Looking sexy and confident and brilliant… _everyone_ wants part of that virtue, though I’m not sure how much you have left what with all the bits I’ve been stealing away week after week.”

      “I am utterly bankrupt.  A wanton hedonist, with decadence as my only way of life.”

      “Perfect!  Then I can offer you a nice glass of wine and not worry about you saying no.”

Lestrade held out his arm and Mycroft gladly linked his for them to begin walking.

      “Have I told you today that I’m proud of you, love?”

      “Many times, though I do not tire of hearing it.”

      “Then, I’ll say it again.  I’m proud of you and I love you with all my heart.  I am absolutely ecstatic that this is happening and… you deserve every bit of it.  Everyone is talking about how fantastic your work is, too.  Well, they’re using lots of words I don’t really understand, but I can tell when people like something and when they don’t and they _love_ this.  You’ve done it, Mycroft.  You got your art out there and showed people just how talented you are.  You’re in for big things, love.  Very big things and I am… I may need a trip outside in a bit so I can have a shout and get all of his excitement out of me.”

Mycroft leaned over and kissed his partner, forcing down the surge of emotion that rose up seeing the honest delight, pride and love in Lestrade’s eyes.  His Gregory was right… he _was_ in for big things.  A life with a loving man who genuinely enjoyed their time together and happily allowed a flawed and fractured artist to take up residence in his heart.  And that was a place the artist was more than happy to stay for the rest of his days.   Each and every of the glorious, frightening, rewarding and joyful days that were to come.

      “Then a trip outside you shall have.  Perhaps a small moment to enjoy a bit of wine in a quieter atmosphere, once, of course, your shouting has finished.”

      “My Mycroft needs a break?  Then a break he shall have.  Sherlock can mind the crowd while we’re gone.”

      “Oh dear.  Perhaps a quick shot of vodka instead of a glass of wine.  And do condense your shouting into a single, purposeful burst, if you would be so kind.”

      “Don’t worry, I saw Mrs. Hudson milling about and she’ll act as Sherlock’s minder, if John’s not up to the challenge.”

      “Gregory, Mrs. Hudson allowed Sherlock use of the pistol she found hidden under the floorboard of her flat and simply scolded him when he punctuated his cries of boredom with a hail of bullets.”

      “You’re right.  Vodka and right back here for you to soak up your success.  Time for kissing though, right?”

      “Always time for kissing, my dear.”

      “Do I get to choose what I kiss?”

Mycroft bopped Lestrade’s nose with his finger and steered him over to the bar.  Of course his Gregory could choose what to kiss.  He and his lover were nothing if not adaptable to even the most miserly of timeframes when matters of love were involved…


End file.
